


From Childhood's Hour

by seatbeltdrivein



Series: Victory-verse [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: M/M, future!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-20
Updated: 2011-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:56:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seatbeltdrivein/pseuds/seatbeltdrivein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Roy looked for any reason to see Ed in person after they were stationed so far apart, an investigation into the violent death of a child wasn't exactly the romantic rendezvous he'd intended. There's a dangerous alchemist on the loose in Central, and the deeper the investigation goes, the more disturbing Ed finds it—not to mention familiar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of an AU of the first anime-verse, assumes that Ed is still in Amestris and a State Alchemist while Al's body has been restored. This was originally written during NaNoWriMo 2010 and is too long to post all at once, so I'll be posting it in parts as I finish editing it.

The phone call was the third one Roy had received in the last twenty minutes, and he was getting tired of the constant pestering. Picking up the receiver, he swore to himself that if it was General Hakuro insisting upon updated requisition forms for paper goods again, he was going to test the limits of his alchemy and determine whether it was actually possible to set fire to someone through the phone.

"General Mustang."

" _General, sir, this is Second Lieutenant Westin,_ " spoke the unfamiliar voice on the other end of the line. " _I was told to pass on a request. You and your team are needed in the downtown area, Central Park, for an investigation._ "

"Investigation?" Roy echoed. "Local investigations aren't under my jurisdiction, Lieutenant. You'll need to contact Intelligence."

" _Yes, sir,_ " Westin was likely a younger officer, judging by the nervous quiver in his voice. " _But this incident is, ah, related to alchemy, sir._ "

"Really." Hawkeye popped her head in the doorway, and Roy waved her in. "What sort of investigation is this?"

" _There's been a murder, sir,_ " the officer said. " _A child, and there was a transmutation circle. It's,_ " a nervous cough, " _I can't really describe it, sir. You'll need to come_."

That sounded ominous. Roy eyed his empty inbox. He'd been anticipating a slow day, very little work needing done, perhaps time for a phone call to North. It seemed that he wouldn't be so lucky.

"I'm on my way," he said, and hung up without bothering to acknowledge the nervous officer's spluttered thanks. "Lieutenant, we've been summoned."

"I overheard," Hawkeye said. "We haven't been called in for a local crime in years."

"A special operations team costs too much to deploy," Roy said dismissively. "Cases are passed over us on a regular basis."

"Which means this must be a particularly unpleasant one."

"My thoughts exactly." Roy pulled his uniform jacket on, straightening the collar. "Have Lieutenant Havoc ready a car. We're leaving in ten minutes."

"Sir," Hawkeye saluted, and disappeared back into the main office. Roy could hear her barking orders to the team, could hear his men scrambling to action. With one last look at his desk, empty for the first time in weeks, he went to join his men.

*

They found the child's body in pieces on the playground, scattered around the perimeter of a large, roughly drawn transmutation circle. It wasn't possible to walk even a foot without stepping in something, a blood splatter or otherwise. The boy, or what was left of him, had been on the playground in the hot June sun for the better part of a day. Roy couldn't smell anything else.

The team that had arrived first was still gathering the remains, and Hawkeye was the one who eventually found the head. She closed the boy's eyes and held her hand over the swollen lids while the men raced around trying to piece together something, anything. They rarely saw crimes of that magnitude in Central, not since before the fall of Bradley's regime years before, and it was the sort of thing bound to leave a mark on a man—one way or another.

"We need to," Roy cleared his throat, "find the family. Contact Intelligence. And," he hesitated with the last order, "have someone contact North HQ. We'll need Fullmetal for this."

"Sir." Hawkeye saluted with one hand, still crouched down and holding her other hand over the boy's eyes.

"Leave it, Lieutenant," Roy said gently.

"Sir," she said again, and left the thing resting at his feet. When she walked away, the head went unsteady and rolled, falling on its side as though it was staring at Roy. Roy looked away.

It was going to be one of those days.

*

Ed's train was scheduled to arrive at eight in the evening, so of course it came rolling into the station ten minutes before midnight. Roy had gotten the call from the stationmaster just in time to requisition a car and make it to the platform before Ed disembarked.

"You look like hell," was the first thing the young man said to him, standing just out of the train, bag slung over his shoulder and hips cocked to the side. "What's with that face?"

"I wasn't aware there was something wrong with my face," Roy said.

Ed looked puzzled and opened his mouth to say something, but he seemed to think better of it and settled for shaking his head. "There's something wrong with _you_ ," he laughed, and bumped Roy's shoulder as he walked past. "C'mon, old man, I'm starvin'!"

Despite the dark, the car was somehow sweltering when they climbed in it, and Ed was quick to shed his jacket and gloves, pushing his hair over his shoulder and smoothing his bangs against the top of his head. "Damn, but I'll never get used to this."

"Isn't it hotter in Resembool?" Roy asked, pulling out onto the street.

"Mm," Ed hummed his agreement. "But I ain't been by Resembool in, what, two years? In North, it's a hell of a lot different."

"I'm looking to get you reassigned."

Ed's smile stretched all the way to his eyes. "Are you? And where might that reassignment be?"

"Guess," Roy snorted, feeling a spark of humor for the first time in weeks. "I'm sure you can puzzle it out."

"I bet," Ed said, resting his head back against the seat. He looked comfortable, Roy observed, like he was finally resting and taking care of himself the way he should.

Roy _missed_ him.

"I'm not sure what I have at home, as far as food's concerned." Roy tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "Would you like to stop somewhere, or…?"

"Stop somewhere," Ed said, "because once we're in the front door, I can promise I won't be going _anywhere_ till morning."

Oh, thought Roy, and took a sharp right into the next diner, tires screeching and Ed sliding against the door with a loud thump and a curse.

"Overeager!" Ed grumbled. "Coulda _warned_ me—"

"I have no idea what you mean," Roy said, lips curling up into a self-satisfied smile. "I just thought you might like," he glanced at the little restaurant, "Aunt May's… Fish House."

"Yeah, okay," Ed said derisively, slamming the car door. "Well, you know how fish just do it for me." He sauntered away from the car and up to the front door where he paused to look at Roy over his shoulder as though to say, _Well?_

The waitress was an older woman, pushing sixty at least. She took one look at Roy when they walked in and batted her eyelashes like a woman several decades younger and pushed them to the center table. Ed couldn't resist it and leaned over the moment she walked away to whisper, "I think she likes you," in Roy's ear, laughing.

"All women love me," Roy said solemnly, before adding, "and some men, apparently," with a look at Ed.

"Don't let my bad taste go to your head," Ed cautioned. "It's big enough already."

"You'd know, wouldn't you?" Roy quipped—and winced when automail toes dug into his shin. He was willing to admit that he probably deserved that one.

The restaurant wasn't the type of place Roy would have ordinarily bothered with, too kitschy for him, but Ed seemed more at ease with the casual atmosphere than he'd ever been in any of the upper-class places Roy frequented.

"For a fish house, they serve very little fish," Roy muttered, scanning the menu. "And everything's _fried._ "

"What's wrong with fried? I like fried."

"It's terrible for you," Roy said, scowling at Ed over the top of the menu.

"A lot of things I like are terrible for me," Ed said. "I think I'm okay with that."

After they put in their orders, the food came quickly. Roy was struck by the thought that perhaps he should tell Ed about the case he'd called him down for, that they should at least do something other than make eyes at each other and play footsie under the table like two teenagers on their first date, but after spending two months without anything but phone calls and letters, Roy wanted to enjoy the moment.

There was nothing enjoyable about dead kids—not on their side of the case.

*

They were lucky the diner was of the twenty-four hour service variety, because by the time Ed had his fill of food and emptying Roy's wallet, it was closing in on two in the morning. Roy was exhausted, and he could see the dark circles under Ed's eyes, the way the young man's mouth drooped.

Starting the car, Roy had a passing thought of his bed and what he'd prefer to be doing in it. Next to him, Ed let out a weary breath, and Roy locked that particular thought away to be explored another time.

"They really need t'do somethin'," Ed paused to yawn, mouth open so wide Roy heard his jaw pop, "about the trains. Always so fuckin' late…"

"One hundred years from now, we'll both be dead, and the trains will still not run on schedule," Roy said. "Don't hold your breath."

"Wasn't plannin' on it…" Ed's head rolled back against the seat and his eyes fell shut. Roy watched him out of the corner of his eye for a moment before turning his attention to the road. When Ed had said he wouldn't be leaving till morning once they got to the house, he'd been correct, but not in the way Roy might've liked. They were both dead on their feet. Sleep sounded excellent. It wasn't what he'd planned for the night, but he'd rather have _this_ than nothing.

When Roy pulled up to his house and parked the car, Ed finally stirred, blinking rapidly before running a hand over his eyes. "Damn, I'm tired."

"It's been a long day." Roy stepped out of the car and heard Ed open his door and follow.

"No kidding," Ed complained. "I used to be able to ride trains all damn day and still be fine. I spent, what, five hours on board, and suddenly I can't even function."

"It's called getting old," Roy explained with a touch of mischief in his tone.

"Fuck you, I am _not_ old," Ed denied vehemently. "Twenty-six, how's that old?"

"Well, that certainly woke you up." Roy grinned. "Have I touched a nerve?"

"Just open the door, old man," Ed ordered. "Listenin' to you is giving me the hives."

Roy, still chuckling, unlocked the door in time for Ed to knock him aside and stroll in, stopping just inside the doorway. "Mm."

"What?" Roy pushed him in and closed the door behind them.

"Smells just like I remember in here," Ed sighed. "S'always nice." His eyes were closed and he looked so relaxed, shoulders at ease and arms slack. How long had it taken Ed to get where he was? How often was Ed this relaxed? Roy stepped closer until his chest molded to Ed's back and his nose buried in Ed's hair as he breathed in the moment.

"I missed you," Roy mumbled into his hair, feeling Ed lean back against him.

"Yeah," Ed said, the words heavy with sleep. "You, too."

There was an old comfort in the way they touched that Roy had never felt with anyone else. They walked together to the bedroom, tripping up the steps in a confusion of weary limbs. By the time they tumbled onto the bed, Roy felt too heavy to do anything but kick off his boots and rest his head on the pillow.

The last thing he felt before sleep pulled him under was Ed's head pushing against the space between his neck and shoulder, breathing a warm, happy sigh against his skin.

*

Roy's eyes fluttered open to morning, blinking away the nighttime image of the dead boy's head staring up at him from the ground with an accusing scowl, saying, _where were **you** when I died? _

"You were pretty restless last night." Ed was awake, laying on his side and watching Roy. His forehead was wrinkled. Roy reached out and smoothed his thumb across the worried crease, smiling sleepily.

"Sorry," Roy said—or rather, yawned. "Did I keep you up?"

Ed rustled into the sheets, pulling them up over his shoulders. "Nah. I can sleep wherever. A little moving around isn't enough to bother me."

At some point during the night, Ed had gotten out of his shirt. Roy was not so fortunate—falling asleep with all his clothes on left him feeling stiff and uncomfortable. Shifting, he sat up and tried pulling off his uniform shirt, but the buttons caught and almost tore. Ed rolled closer and grabbed Roy's hands, moving them out of the way and undoing the buttons himself. Roy rested his back against the headboard and watched Ed's hand, one flesh and one metal, undo his shirt and creep down to his lap, nimble fingers fidgeting with his zip before managing to get it open.

"Up," Ed commanded. "Get your butt off the bed!" Roy, amused, did as he was told and let Ed tug his pants off, taking his boxers with them and leaving him in nothing but his socks and unbuttoned shirt. Ed snickered.

"Very funny," Roy said, slumping back down onto the mattress and reclaiming the sheets from Ed's half of the bed. He slung an arm over his eyes, yawning loudly again. "What time is it?"

Ed rolled over to the other side of the bed again, glanced at the clock, and then rolled back to Roy. "Just before eight," he said.

"I'm shocked you're awake."

"Me?" Ed laughed. "You're the one who sleeps in his office. I can go days without sleep."

Roy made a vague humming sound. "I suppose that might be true."

"Might be," Ed huffed. " _Is_ , more like it."

Reaching under the blanket, Roy grabbed for Ed, running his hands down the man's hips. "You're naked?" he asked, bewildered. How had he slept through Ed undressing?

"Maybe I've been awake for a while." Ed rolled up and over, settling himself with a knee on either side of Roy's hips. Ed was—hard, very obviously hard, and his cock jutted out right at Roy's eye level. Wrapping a hand around its base, Roy laughed, sleep still catching in his voice, and said, "Shall we make up for lost time?"

"That was the idea." Ed's eyelids fluttered when Roy adjusted his grip, squeezing and releasing slowly. "Mm…"

How he managed to go so long without Ed in his bed, Roy didn't know, but he wasn't about to waste any more time. "Imagine," Roy murmured, "if you were reassigned."

"Might not be such a good idea," Ed rasped. "I'd have to leave the bed at some point, y'know. Fuck, if you keep _doin'_ that—"

"We eventually have to go to headquarters," Roy said, pushing into a sitting position, Ed's cock pressed between their stomachs. "There isn't time to—prolong things." Ed was writhing in his lap, moving _just so_ that Roy's cock slid against the cleft of Ed's ass, the friction perfect. It really had been too long, much too long.

Roy squeezed tighter and Ed's back bent like a bow, his forehead pushing down against Roy's shoulder as he exhaled a sharp, tight sound and came all over Roy's fist. He left his head where it fell, panting against Roy's shoulder. His forehead felt warm and damp against the thin layer of Roy's shirt, the sensation vaguely uncomfortable. The room was too hot as it was, and coupled with the frustrating feel of being just on the edge but not close enough, Roy couldn't stand just sitting still.

"Ed," he began, and as though he could read Roy's mind, Ed let out a short laugh and twisted in Roy's lap, his legs spilling down off the side of the bed as his lips went over the slickened head of Roy's cock and _sucked._

This, Roy thought, one hand in Ed's sweat dampened hair, was the sort of morning routine a man could get used to.

*

There was a total of six files on Roy's desk when he and Ed made it into the office just before ten—every one of them involved the same case.

"So this is it?" Ed glanced up from the first file. "This is my case?"

"Your area of specialty is necessary for the investigation," Roy said. Part of him wished Ed wasn't the most talented bioalchemist in Amestris, if only it meant he wouldn't have to deal with things like this. Hell, Roy wished _he_ didn't have to deal with the case.

Ed flipped through the file, and Roy watched the same wrinkle appear on Ed's forehead that he always got when he was thinking about something particularly difficult. "Hm. This is the circle?"

Leaning over Ed's shoulder to get a look at the picture, Roy nodded. "That was the only circle in the area. The damage came solely from it, as far as we can tell."

"It's really…" Ed hesitated, bringing the picture close to his face. "Something's off about it. Has the actual circle been preserved?"

"There's a guard standing watch," Roy confirmed. "I thought you might want to see it in person." Ed was just staring at the photo, eyes narrowed. "What? Do you recognize it?"

"I—it's hard to say. There's something familiar about it, though."

"Do you think you might know the alchemist who performed the transmutation?"

"I don't know," Ed said. "There's no telling at this point. I think the first thing to do is figure out exactly what the purpose of the circle was. Where's the body?"

Roy looked away. "You're sure you want to see it?"

"Don't be an idiot." Ed tucked the first file under his arm. "There's no way to do this properly without seeing the body."

"What's _left_ of it, anyway," Havoc said, walking into the room with a stack of papers in his arms. "Hey, boss. Long time, huh?"

"Hey, Havoc," Ed grinned. "S'only been a few months. The way you guys go on, you'd think life ends when I walk out the door."

"Not for me, it doesn't," Havoc said. "Anyway, the examiner wants a word with you. Said he wants a second opinion."

"Second opinion?" Ed raised a brow. "From me?"

"Just passing on the message." Havoc shrugged. Ed looked over at Roy, nose scrunched.

"Right," he said, pushing his bangs back out of his eyes, frowning thoughtfully. "Guess I'll head over, then. Mind if I take this?" Ed asked, waving the file.

"Go ahead. It'll be more use to you than to us, at this point." Looking at the stack of files related to the case on his desk, Roy let out a disgusted sigh and collapsed into his chair. "I foresee a great deal of overtime in my future."

Ed laughed at him, rather unkindly, and clapped a hand on Roy's shoulder before strolling from the room, calling, "I'll come find you later," over his shoulder. Havoc closed the door behind Ed.

"Kind of like old times, huh, General?" Havoc dropped the load of papers on Roy's desk, a few sheets slipping off the side of the thick pile and drifting down to the floor. Roy, shooting Havoc the dirtiest look he could manage, grabbed his pen and picked up the first sheet.

"You have no idea."

*

When the doctor in charge of the autopsy pulled the sheet off the body, Ed suddenly understood Roy's reluctant attitude. It couldn't even really be called a body—just a severed head, an arm, a foot, and a mess of meat and other partial limbs, like someone had just dropped burnt, raw hamburger on the table alongside the rest of the mess.

It was—disgusting, there wasn't a delicate way of saying it. Ed felt ill.

"This is everything they could find," the doctor was saying. "It was all within about thirty feet of the transmutation circle, according to the report. You saw it?"

Ed swallowed and nodded. "I saw the photos, and I'm heading to the actual scene after…" He gestured to the table.

"Do you have any thoughts?" The doctor sounded so clinical about it, like he wasn't even fucking disturbed that this kid, some little boy, had been so completely destroyed. If that attitude was all part of the military, a promise for Ed's future, then Ed wanted nothing to do with it.

"Not sure yet," Ed started, "I wanted to see what you said."

The doctor nodded, looking away from Ed to casually observe the boy's remains. "The best way I can describe it would be—like a bomb was detonated," the doctor said. "The way the parts were spread out, the slight charring here," he pointed to the blackened edges of the severed limbs, "is all indicative of some sort of explosion. You're familiar with the late Crimson Alchemist?"

"Er, yeah," Ed said, disturbed. "Kimbley, right? I met him once—unfortunately…."

"In a way, the damage is similar to Crimson's explosive alchemy, only—"

"Less precise," Ed finished, a light going on in his mind. "The circle—it was so _basic_. But there was still something off about it. I can't put my finger on it, but there's something…"

"What a mess," the doctor muttered, rubbing his eyes and looking human for the first time since Ed walked in. "The last time I saw anything like this was during the civil war. Keep me updated, would you?" He extended a hand.

"Yeah," Ed said, gripping the doctor's hand. "Sure thing, Doctor, ah—"

"Knox," the old man said.

"Doctor Knox." Ed let go of the man's hand and took a step back, wanting nothing more than to get away from the child's carelessly exposed remains. He cleared his throat. "Later, then."

It was an interesting comparison, Ed had to admit. From what little he remembered of Kimbley, the man had been completely out of his mind but still able to pull off the most intricate, precise alchemical explosions. A genius, people had said. Just like Ed.

He was beginning to think that label was more of a curse than a gift.


	2. Chapter 2

There were six soldiers stationed in various places around Central Park, all of them determinedly not looking at the array still scrawled across the ground, spattered with the last seconds of some yet-to-be-identified child's life. Ed wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, his glove soaking up the newest beads of sweat.

Ed _hated_ summer.

"Nothing was touched?"

The guard stationed closest to the scene gave Ed a clumsy salute. "No, sir," he assured. "Everything is exactly the way it was—except for the body." Which was completely fine. Ed could stand not having to see a mess like _that_ again.

"Have you seen anyone around?"

The guard looked surprised at the question. "No, people keep showing up around the edge," he waved to the long row of short bushes that separated the playground from the park green, "but that's just because they're curious, I think." The soldier glanced at Ed before quickly tossing on a, "sir!" at the end. He looked scared, and it took Ed a few moments of silent contemplation to realize that the soldier—a _soldier_ , for fuck's sake—wasn't afraid of the scene, or the theorized killer alchemist that came along with it. He was afraid of the alchemist standing not five feet away from him.

Ed looked away. A few years ago, he would have found that hilarious. Now he just feels the same ache of that empty space between him and the rest of the world so keenly that it was like someone had scooped out his insides and left him walking around. People, Ed knew, were strange and fickle and completely ungrateful and unaware of just what it took to keep them safe. What did they think Ed did all day, sit around and experiment on whoever was unfortunate enough to walk into his lab? They probably did, the bastards.

Ignoring the fidgety soldier, Ed kneeled at the bottom edge of the array. He'd seen the photos of it, of course, but somehow, he was expecting it to be larger. The amount of damage it created was—intense, too much for such a small circle. Perhaps 'small' was a relative term, but an array roughly three feet in diameter should have left more of a body. Ed touched the edge of it, battling the passing urge to activate it for a better idea of how it worked. He _knew_ what it did. He didn't need more than that, and if he activated it, there was no telling exactly how it would react. But still…

He turned his head toward the guard. The man had taken to watching Ed with blatant curiosity, standing at attention but completely ignoring the task at hand in favor of watching the investigation. "You got a pen?" Ed asked. "Something to write with, doesn't matter what."

"Oh, uh," the soldier patted his pockets frantically and pulled out a pencil, walking it over to Ed. "Here, sir."

"Thanks." Ed pulled the sheet of paper he'd gotten with the directions, turning it to the blank side and sketching out the array. He couldn't activate it _here_ , but in a more controlled environment, he could. There was no better way to gain understanding than through practical experience, and Ed knew, as he always did, that it would only take once. Once he activated the array, he would know it inside and out, and what better way was there to understand the alchemist, than to understand his array? As far as Ed was concerned, there _wasn't._

Double-checking his rendition against the actual array, Ed noted the differences between his own style. Back when he'd carefully sketched his arrays, he'd favored grand designs and power over simplicity. This alchemist's array was painfully simple, but the symbols he chose counteracted that. Had Ed not seen the damage it could cause, he would have brushed off the array as something drawn by an amateur. And it wasn't even carefully drawn. The main circle wobbled, causing the array to look as though it was literally shaking.

Remembering Knox's comparison, Ed desperately tried to recall if he'd ever seen Kimbley's array. Nothing came to mind. He decided to add checking the man's file to his mental list, and tucked the sheet of paper into his pocket.

"I don't want this touched," Ed said to the guard. "Don't let a single person near this, got it?"

"Yes, sir!" The soldier saluted. When Ed walked away, he swore he saw a glimpse of relief in his last look at the man's face.

*

When Hawkeye walked into the office, Roy took one look at her somber expression and put down General Hakuro's proposal on The Military's State of Financial Distress and How We Can Fix It. "Have you found something new, Lieutenant?"

"We've just received word on the boy's identity. Samson Bray, age thirteen." She passed a sheet of paper to him, and Roy recognized Knox's near-illegible scrawl immediately.

"Family?"

"A mother and father, both located in the downtown area. They reported him missing yesterday morning, about an hour after the—remains were found." The lieutenant barely stumbled over the words, more than Roy could have done himself.

"Have they been contacted?"

Hawkeye held his gaze. "I believe that's being left up to us, given that the investigation is under your jurisdiction."

Oh, fuck. "I see," Roy said, putting the paper down on his desk and moving Hakuro's paper over it.

"I've readied a car." There was no sign of obvious distress on her face, but Roy had known Hawkeye for the better portion of their lives. The tiny lines between her eyebrows, the forced neutrality of her expression—he could see the stress mounting.

He wondered, vaguely, if she could see it as clearly in him.

"I suppose that's that, then. Shall we?"

"One moment, sir." Hawkeye stepped out into the main office, returning with the morning's newspaper in hand. She closed the door behind her and handed Roy the paper. "Central Times got a hold of the story yesterday and printed this before we could issue a gag order."

Roy took one look at the headline. Suddenly, fuck was not a strong enough word. "Boy mutilated by alchemist," he read, voice strained with disbelief. "And no doubt, his parents have seen this."

"The crime scene itself isn't secluded," Hawkeye added. "They live close enough to walk to the park. They were likely already aware of what happened, but not in this detail."

"And they're probably holding out hope that this wasn't their son." Roy rubbed his eyes, pressure building in his head, creeping from a mild twinge to an insistent throbbing.

Hawkeye nodded, picking up the paper and tucking it under her arm. "It would be best that we left now, sir," she said gently.

They so rarely were given charge of any investigations. Roy couldn't recall a single time he'd been required to give notice of death to a family, not since Hughes' death. That time, it had been personal. He'd not questioned it, had simply walked to Gracia's door the moment he'd arrived in Central and let her put Elysia to bed and bury her face his chest and sob. This death, he couldn't claim. He couldn't promise the parents the boy hadn't suffered, not until Ed returned with more information. He couldn't promise vengeance, he couldn't allow them to see the remains—he couldn't actually do much at all. As he and Hawkeye pulled up to the house, a quaint looking two story townhome less than three minutes from the park, Roy felt like a hand was squeezing his heart. There was very little worse than feeling helpless in a situation like this, and if _he_ felt so awful, Roy couldn't begin to imagine what Samson's parents would feel like.

Hawkeye knocked on the door while Roy affixed his expression to something impersonal, objective. His mask very nearly cracked when, the moment she opened the door, the woman he assumed was Mrs. Bray burst into tears.

"I knew it," she said between gasping breaths. Roy had led her into the sitting room as Hawkeye fetched tissues from somewhere in the house. "I—the m-moment we heard about—" Another sobbing breath as she gestured out the window, toward the park, "I knew that it was Samson. He never—he's such a good boy. He never stayed out late or—" She sounded like she was getting ready to hyperventilate. Hawkeye appeared then, a box of tissues and a glass of water at the ready.

She glanced at Roy and said, "Ma'am, I understand this is difficult. But we need to ask a few questions." Hawkeye could sound so gentle when she wanted, and Roy watched Mrs. Bray turn her eyes to his lieutenant, an immediate connection forming.

"All right," she said, wiping her eyes with the tissue, a line of heavy black mascara bleeding across her face. Her chin kept quivering, the struggle to maintain composure evident.

"Were you aware Samson was going to the park that day?" Roy asked.

"No," Mrs. Bray said, swallowing loudly. "He—he was meant to be at school late. There was something going on that day, some club activity. He was in a lot of clubs, you know. He was very active."

Hawkeye jotted something down on a notepad. "Has he mentioned anyone lately?" she asked. "Anyone new, or perhaps something unusual?"

Mrs. Bray paused, chewing on her bottom lip. She wiped away a new stream of tears as they welled up in her eyes and said, "No, he hasn't said anything. Everything's been so—normal. Nothing's changed." Then, her voice dropped to a whisper and she held a hand to her chest, leaning forward. "Do you think it was someone we knew?"

Roy shared a glance with Lieutenant Hawkeye. "There's no telling at this point, ma'am. We're just trying to gather all the facts."

"Was there anyone Samson was especially close to?" Hawkeye asked. "A friend at school who might know—anything else."

"Eli," Mrs. Bray said, sniffing into the wadded up tissue. "Elijah Stern is his full name. They've been friends since they were both in diapers."

Roy watched Hawkeye scribble the boy's name down. "Anyone else?"

"Samson was a quiet boy," Mrs. Bray murmured, grabbing a picture frame from the little table next to the couch. "He got along with everyone. Here," she handed the picture to Hawkeye. Roy leaned over to get a closer look. "Samson is the dark headed boy," she explained. "Eli is the other boy."

Samson looked tall for his age, Roy noted. Tall and broad. At thirteen, Roy had been just a stick, but this Samson looked like he could wallop someone who tried to attack him—or at the very least, get in a good hit or two. Dark hair, dark eyes, a friendly disposition—he looked like a regular thirteen year old, nothing special, nothing noticeable.

"He looks quite like you," Hawkeye said. Mrs. Bray burst into a fresh round of tears.

Roy glanced at a nearby clock as Mrs. Bray launched into a story about her son and his friend, suddenly feeling that they were going to be there for a good while.

*

"Was any of that actually helpful?" Roy asked as Hawkeye drove down the street, Mrs. Bray's home disappearing in their wake.

"For her, I'm certain it was," she said. "Mrs. Bray needed closure."

"And for us?"

"I think we should check with his friend," Hawkeye said. "Stern, wasn't it?"

"Elijah Stern," Roy confirmed, flipping through the notepad. "You think Samson was up to something he shouldn't have been?"

"Boys talk," Hawkeye said. "As much as Mrs. Bray believes her son to be the perfect child, parents rarely know everything. We have a better shot of learning something useful from this Eli boy."

"The father concerned me," Roy added.

"The father wasn't there."

"Which is my point," Roy said. "If Elysia had been missing and Hughes was still alive, he'd have never gone to work until she'd returned."

"Hughes would have been hunting her down," Hawkeye corrected, lips quirked up into a fond smile.

"Granted. But I would think a father would want to be there, if he couldn't do anything else."

"I suppose that depends on the father. I'll send someone to look him up."

"Thank—is that Ed?" Roy caught a glimpse of gold and black on the opposite side of the street. As they drove past, he craned his neck, looking out the back window.

"Would you like me to stop?"

"Just turn around," Roy instructed. "He must've just left the scene." Hawkeye made an abrupt u-turn, managing to both scatter the traffic around them and scare Roy witless. "When I said turn around," he began, strained, holding onto the edges of his seat with white knuckles, "I didn't mean _immediately_."

"Perhaps you should be more specific?" Hawkeye was still looking straight out the window, eyes on the street, but she was smiling in a way that suggested her mind was elsewhere.

"This is why I usually have Havoc drive," Roy grumbled. "Here, pull over here— _gently_ , Lieutenant, if you don't mind!" As soon as the car was at the curb, Roy stepped out. He could still see Ed. The man obviously wasn't in much of a hurry.

"I'll head back to headquarters," Hawkeye said. "I'll have the Stern boy located—as well as the father."

"I'll be there as soon as I can," Roy promised, closing the door. He walked briskly down the sidewalk, calling Ed's name. The man didn't seem to hear him, so Roy, irritated, cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, "Fullmetal!" down the sidewalk. Ed stopped dead in his tracks, looking around wildly before catching sight of Roy.

"What are you yelling my title for!" Ed shouted back, jogging Roy's way. "I have a name, you know!"

"I tried that. You can hardly blame me for your inability to listen to anything that isn't a direct order!"

"Ooh, someone's snippy," Ed said. "I take it the day hasn't gone according to plan?"

"I met with the victim's mother, who cried the entire time. We spent two hours listening to stories about the boy's baseball team!"

"Sounds helpful," Ed snorted.

"Not for me, unfortunately. And then Lieutenant Hawkeye tried to _kill_ me—"

"Oh, please!" Ed rolled his eyes.

"That woman," Roy said, "cannot drive. There's a reason Havoc drives me—"

"Because you're too damn lazy to drive yourself, that's why."

"Women can't drive," Roy said, pointedly ignoring Ed's comment. "All of them—completely insane."

"Best not let any women actually hear you say that." Ed pulled out his pocket watch, flipping the cover open. "It's, like, almost five? Seriously?" Ed let out a deep breath. "For fuck's sake, there aren't enough hours in a day."

"I've been saying that for years."

"Let's get something to eat. I got some ideas I want to run by you."

"About the case?" Roy asked. Ed nodded. "Then we'll eat in the mess hall. There's been enough exposure without the chance of being overheard."

"Well, then, by all means, let's get to walking," Ed said, linking his arm in Roy's and tugging him down the sidewalk. "And what do you mean, exposure?"

"The newspapers," Roy said, trying to pull free. Ed just grinned cheekily and tightened his grip. "There's already been a front-page article."

"Seriously?" Ed whistled. "They sure don't waste any time." He let his grip go slack so Roy could escape. Roy let his arm slip out, but not before giving Ed's hand a squeeze.

"Seriously," Roy confirmed. "And it would have been nice to have gotten the chance to speak with the family _before_ the papers ran some sensationalist version of the truth."

The walk was nice after such a stressful day, Roy had to admit. Granted, it would have been nicer to have Ed around without a murder case looming over their heads, but he'd take what he could get. The pleasant mood died a horrible death the moment they walked into the mess hall. It was jam-packed—Ed took one look at the group of soldiers flooding the hall and began muttering darkly under his breath.

"You'd think you've never been in a mess hall at five 'o'clock before," Roy teased.

"In North," Ed informed him, "the mess hall is always empty because the food tastes like shit. You Central guys are pampered!"

"Ah," Roy said. "That sounds familiar. How is the Major General?"

"Terrifying," Ed said. "And a complete bitch."

"So she's no different than usual," Roy surmised. "How wonderful. I was beginning to wonder if you'd met her."

"She's not around a lot. She usually sticks to Briggs, but she occasionally comes by HQ to make sure we're all sufficiently miserable." The line was moving quickly, at least. Ed craned his neck to try and get a glimpse at the menu for the day, but he was still about six inches too short to see over the heads of the crowd in front of them, much to Roy's amusement.

"And are you?" Roy asked. "Sufficiently miserable, I mean."

Ed looked over at Roy, expression unreadable, before turning his attention back to the menu. "Depends on the time of day," he said simply.

Roy didn't have time to ask for an explanation, because the line lurched forward, and it was their turn. Ed didn't look miserable. Roy could usually tell Ed's moods as easily as he could tell the time on a clock, but sometimes, he heard strange nuances in Ed's voice, saw these bizarre, fleeting expressions, and he wondered if he could really read the man half as well as he thought.

"You're making faces," Ed said as they carried their trays up to the office, walking slowly so as not to lose their dinners.

"Am I?"

"If thinking hurts so much, then you might want to give up on it."

Roy scoffed. "That's rich, coming from you." The door to the main office was thankfully open, so Roy was able to avoid the embarrassment of trying to open it with his foot. That never ended well.

His desk quickly became an impromptu dining table, Roy hastily clearing files out of the way while balancing his tray with the other hand. "So what's this that you wanted to talk to me about?" he asked, finally setting his food down and taking a seat.

"Ah." Ed sat up off his chair a bit, giving himself room to rummage through his pocket. "This," he said, putting the paper on the table, "is the array from the scene."

Roy nodded. "I have seen it, you know."

"Yeah, well, so I was thinking. You knew Kimbley, right?"

"I knew him better than I liked to," Roy said. "We shared a tent for about two weeks in Ishval."

"Two weeks?" Ed's brows shot up. "That's it?"

"He was unstable," Roy began.

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning he terrified the ever living hell out of me," Roy said. "I was sure he was going to kill me in my sleep, so I—had it arranged that Kimbley received his own tent."

"How'd you manage that?"

Roy made a face. "I forced Hughes into sharing his with me."

"He didn't have a tent-mate already?"

"He did," Roy confirmed. "He had a tent-mate for about three days."

Ed shoveled a forkful of potatoes into his mouth. "Then what?"

"Then the war," Roy said, and from the look on Ed's face, the man understood the implication.

"Right," Ed said. "But about Kimbley—you saw his array, right? The one he used the most?"

"He only ever used one," Roy said. "Had it tattooed on the palms of his hands."

"But you know it?" Ed persisted.

"Yes. Of course. You don't forget a thing like that."

Ed pushed the paper with the array from the scene across the table, rolling a pen along with it. "Draw it for me."

Roy picked up the pen but hesitated when the tip met the paper. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable drawing it, Ed."

"It's just for me," Ed said. "I need it. I think there might be some connection."

"Between the case and Kimbley? Ed, the man is _dead_!"

"I know, I know," Ed said. "But Knox said some things, and I got to thinking."

"You'll have to explain this to me, once you've puzzled it out," Roy said, sketching the array out just below the first one. It was unsettling, seeing Kimbley's array after so many years. Even though he was drawing it himself, the sight of it still left Roy cold. He handed it to Ed, adding, "Do _not_ let anyone else have this. That array is one I don't mind seeing disappear."

"You have my word," Ed promised, folding the paper and tucking it back into his pocket. "But what about you? Come up with anything?"

"Not really," Roy admitted. "The mother had very little to say. We've figured a few people who would be worth speaking to, but on the whole, the day's not been all that eventful."

Ed hummed. "This case might drag on for a while."

"How long do you have here?" Roy asked, feeling an inappropriate hope welling in his mind.

"Till the case ends," Ed said. "It's an official thing, so I'm here as long as I'm needed." He laughed. "It almost makes me want to draw the damn thing out as long as I can. That's terrible, isn't it?"

"No." Roy couldn't fault Ed for voicing Roy's own thoughts. "Not really."

"One of these days, I'll get reassigned," Ed said. Then, to lighten the mood, "And if you don't manage to wrangle me down here, I swear I'm gonna kick your ass!"

"I'm working on it," Roy said, picking through his food.

"You'd better be." Ed managed to sound threatening even as he was stealing food off Roy's tray. "I'm damn sick of snow."

Outside, the sun was beginning to set, disappearing behind a line of buildings. Roy watched the reddish light cast a glow on Ed through the window and wondered how many more nights he'd have like this.

*

"I'm really sorry about this," Roy said as he rushed out the door early the next morning, leaving a groggy Ed at the kitchen table to be kept company only by the sound of the percolator brewing a fresh pot. "But the teachers at Samson's school arrive very early, and we need to surprise them so they don't have the chance to coordinate a story, in the case that any of them are involved."

Ed's forehead was stuck to the table, so Roy barely managed to translate the muffled noise coming out of his mouth to, "S'okay, have a nice day."

"I'll come find you for dinner," Roy promised. Outside, a car horn bleated, the noise a steady and unending disturbance. Roy cursed under his breath. Ed lifted his head from the table, glanced at the brewing coffee, and held out an arm to drag Roy into a semi-embrace and press a rather forceful kiss to his temple.

"Out," Ed said, "or the beeping is going to drive _me_ to murder."

Roy didn't need to be told twice. When he ran flat-footed from the house, barely stopping to kick the front door shut behind him, Havoc was watching from the car window.

"It's what I've always liked about you, sir," Havoc said as Roy scrambled into the passenger seat. "Always so dignified."

"It's not even seven in the morning, Lieutenant," Roy grumbled. "And just so you're aware, I _am_ wearing my gloves."

Havoc dropped the grin rather quickly after that, focusing instead on the road. "So," he began after a few moments of silence, "who're we making the surprise visit to?"

"Samson's teachers," Roy began, ticking names off a mental list, "Elijah Stern—the kid was very involved in school, according to his mother, so there's bound to be someone else he was close to. We need to piece together his last day. And for god's sake, put out that cigarette! You reek!"

Havoc chucked the half-smoked stick out the window, shooting his commanding officer a baleful look. "You've never minded before," he grumbled.

Roy looked out the window. "Ed's never liked the way it smells."

"Oh—oh, so _Ed_ thinks it reeks," Havoc crowed. "I understand, I understand. A man's got to look good, but sir, I'm curious. When did Ed become your _wife_?"

Roy held up one hand, the array facing Havoc and his fingers held a hair's width apart. "What was that, Lieutenant?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all, sir!" Havoc shrunk against the car door as much as he could.

"That's what I thought," Roy said, satisfied.

The school was a public institution, a long brick building with as little personality as the man who ran it. The principal, a Mr. Reed, was just unlocking the front entrance as Havoc pulled in the parking lot. Roy watched the man glance back at the car, return his attention to the door, and then whip his neck around so violently his glasses went flying off his face. "I do believe he's figured out what we're here for," Roy said, watching the man begin frantically patting down his clothes in an effort to make himself as presentable as possible.

"Guy's sure eager to please," Havoc muttered as the man began waving them across the parking lot as though he'd planned on their arrival all along.

"It's bad publicity, a murdered kid." Roy tugged the edge of his glove. "Especially since the child in question was supposed to be at the school during the time of the murder. I doubt he wants the school's name being dragged into any of it."

"General Mustang," the principal greeted the moment they were in hearing range. "What an, ah, _unexpected_ pleasure! And, this is…?"

"My subordinate," Roy said, gesturing to his side, "Lieutenant Havoc. I apologize for not calling ahead, but as I'm sure you know, we've been very busy."

"Of course, of course. It's a terrible matter, the boy's death, but it _is_ a pleasure to see you." The man was sweating profusely, damp patches visible at his armpits even with both of his arms firmly by his sides. "Is there anything I can do?"

"We need to speak with Samson Bray's teacher," Roy said, trying not to let his exasperation at the man's rambling show too much. One look at Havoc's face told Roy that the lieutenant wasn't buying Reed's bullshit either. "And then, the coach he was meant to be with that day. It was a sporting even, if I'm correct?"

"Baseball practice," Mr. Reed said after some hesitation. "The boy's never missed practice before. The coach assumed he was ill—"

"As I'm certain the coach will tell us himself," Roy interrupted. "The door, if you will."

Another moment of hesitation passed before Mr. Reed unlocked the front door, waving them inside. "It's early," he explained. "I'm not entirely certain who's here yet. I've only just arrived myself, you see."

"Thank you," Roy said, gesturing for Havoc to follow. "We'll take it from here. I'll be sure to stop by your office before we leave, so keep your schedule open, Mr. Reed."

The man nodded nervously, not bothering to watch them walk away before he unlocked the front office and disappeared inside.

"He looked like a real mess." Havoc shook his head. "You don't think…?"

"No," Roy said. "Reed is a pompous ass at worst. I've had to deal with him once before, back when the school system was planning on incorporating alchemy into the curriculum."

"Right, right, I remember that. Flopped, didn't it?"

"Of course. Given the impression most people had of alchemy during Bradley's regime, most parents weren't too thrilled with the idea." He stopped, pointing to the end of the hall. "There's a light on in that room."

"Check it out?" Havoc suggested.

The classroom wasn't the one they were hoping for—it belonged to a sixth grade teacher who was helpful enough to point them to a room three halls over. The eighth grade hall was still completely dark. Even once Havoc flipped the lights on, there wasn't a whole lot to see.

"Hey, I think this is the room?" Havoc pointed to a doorway. "Class roster lists a 'Bray, Samson' and a 'Stern, Elijah'."

Roy joined him, glancing at the list. "The teacher is… a Ms. C. Patton." He pulled out his pocket watch. It was five minutes after seven. "Well, I suppose the only thing to do now is wait."

"Wonderful," Havoc said, absentmindedly patting the pack of cigarettes tucked away in his uniform jacket. "With our luck, she'll call out sick today." With the way things had gone so far, Roy wouldn't have been very surprised.

"Let's hope our luck changes, then," he said, and settled his back against the wall to wait.


	3. Chapter 3

The Intelligence Department was on the third floor of the right wing of Central Headquarters, which made sense, in a twisted way. It was the single most irritating place to find, because everything around it was always moving—always something happening, offices exploding with paperwork, and employees rioting. It was easy to lose the little office in the midst of all that activity. The location had been Hughes' idea, evident in the fact that it was both incredibly cunning and extremely annoying.

"I need to—are you even listening to me?" Ed slammed his hands down on the receptionist's desk, lip curled.

The receptionist gave him a _look_ and actually—Ed couldn't even fucking believe it—put a finger to her lips before going right back to the typewriter.

Tolerance was not in Ed's vocabulary, not the sort that this situation required.

Ed leaned across the desk until his braid fell over his shoulder and right on the keys of the typewriter, snarling, "Hey, think you can give a soldier a hand, here?"

The woman shot back, startled, a hand to her chest like she hadn't even known he was there. Ed rolled back on the balls of his feet, shrugging his shoulders so the chain of his silver watch rattled and drew her attention.

"Mister…"

"Major Elric," Ed said blandly. "The Fullmetal alchemist."

Lips a silent ' _O_ ', the receptionist scooted her chair forward and smiled sheepishly. "How can I help you, Major?"

"I need one of the labs cleared out in," Ed paused, "ten minutes. Three personnel can hang around as well. I might need some help."

"Ten minutes? I—sir, it might take a _bit_ longer than ten minutes—"

"Then you have eleven minutes," Ed said with every bit of vindictiveness he could muster. "Lab, say, two? I'll go ahead down. I'm sure you can handle it." Giving her desk a friendly pat, he turned on his heel and strode from the room self-importantly.

It was damn eight in the morning, and Ed hadn't been up and about long enough to take shit from _anyone._

Lab two was the smallest lab with the least personnel at any given time. Before Ed got shipped off to freezing temperatures and ice year round, he'd worked almost exclusively in it. He was fairly certain the main test area was still charred from the last experiment he'd run—unsupervised.

The higher-ups in North rarely gave Ed the freedom to exercise any _alchemical whims_ , as they called it, so by the time Ed tromped across the parade grounds to the lab building, he was jittery with excitement. Even given the circumstances that necessitated the experiment, Ed couldn't think of a single thing he'd rather be doing.

He grinned. Roy, stuck with a building full of schoolteachers and shit for brains brats, probably couldn't say the same.

*

"Have I mentioned that I can think of about a million places I'd rather be?"

Havoc shook his hand out, spitting a torn-off bit of fingernail out. "Only about a thousand times, chief. Say, mind if I just head outside right quick to—"

"I also hate suffering alone, Lieutenant." Roy flashed a charming smile. "I'm sure you understand."

"I understand," Havoc said darkly. "I understand that you're a complete—"

"I'm so sorry to have kept you both waiting!" A woman was jogging toward them frantically, one hand clutching the bottom of her skirt to keep it pulled tight against her legs, the other hand pressed down on her head in a vain attempt to keep the precariously perched bun of loosely raveled brown hair in place as she made her way down the hall. Her face was bright red from exertion.

"Not at all," Roy said, taking her hand. Beside him, Havoc continued muttering. Roy discretely stamped on his subordinate's toes. "You're Mrs. Patton?"

" _Ms_. Patton, actually." The woman batted her lashes, chin tilted delicately upward. The flush bleeding over her forehead ruined the effect as it slowly spread down her cheeks, her neck, some stress making it impossible for her to calm. Roy could feel her pulse through her hand, her heart beating entirely too fast.

"Ms. Patton," Roy corrected himself. "My name is—"

"General Mustang," she finished for him. "I've seen you in the papers! You look just as handsome in real life."

"I'm flattered that you think so." Roy glanced back at Havoc, giving an imperceptible nod before returning his attention to the young woman. "If you don't mind, we have a few questions we'd like to ask."

"About—Samson?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Ms. Patton sighed and opened the classroom door. "It's awful. That boy was so tolerant. I can't imagine!" She led them in, closing the door behind them, and gestured at a round table in the back of the room.

"The death of a child is never pleasant," Roy agreed, taking a seat. Havoc quickly followed suit, already scribbling something down on the notepad. Roy leaned over just enough to catch a look of it—Havoc's name, apparently. Shooting his lieutenant a stern look, Roy returned to Ms. Patton, resting his arms on the table. "Why don't you tell me about Samson Bray?"

"Samson got alone with everyone," Ms. Patton began, and Roy barely resisted the unprofessional urge to roll his eyes. How many times was he going to hear that? If Samson got along with everyone and never caused any trouble, he must have been an exceptionally boring child. "He, well, he played sports…"

"Were you particularly close to him?"

Ms. Patton looked abashed. She stared down at her lap. "No, I wasn't. He was much closer to Paul—Coach Devins," she clarified. "He was never very active in class. Paul always said he came alive on the field."

"Would you say he was an introverted child, then?"

"Oh no," she said, shaking her head. "He just wasn't," a slight hesitation, "academically inclined. Not to say he wasn't intelligent! He just didn't care for school. Or that's what it seemed like to me, anyway."

Havoc was writing rapidly, so Roy paused for a moment, allowing him to catch up, before continuing with, "Why would you say that?"

"He only kept his grades up enough to stay on the team," Ms. Patton said. "Which is a shame, because the boy was bright when he put forth the effort. He slept in class a great deal. He was rarely all here, if you know what I mean."

"Mm." A quick glance at the notepad, then, "Is there anyone you'd say Samson got along with exceptionally well?"

"He got along with most everyone," she began, "but he was very close with Elijah Stern."

"And what's Elijah—"

"Oh!" Havoc startled, dragging a long line across the notepad when the teacher abruptly sat up straighter.

"Oh?" Roy prompted.

"He was also close to that other boy," she said. "Angel Law. He's not in my class. He's in class 8-B next door, but I used to see them together on the school green during lunch. Like I said," she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "Samson was _very_ tolerant."

Roy and Havoc shared a look, but before they could carry on with that particular line of questioning, the bell rang, the piercing sound followed quickly by the thundering of footsteps as students were allowed into the building. "And that'll be my call," Ms. Patton said wearily. "If there's anything else I can do—"

"We'll find you," Roy assured her. "Thank you for your time."

"Is there a reason we're leaving?" Havoc hissed in his ear as they navigated through the flood of students in the hall. "We could have—"

"She would have censored herself around the kids," Roy explained. "It wouldn't have done us any good."

"Hm. I guess," Havoc said. "Where next?"

"Coach Devins, she said his name was? It sounds like he may have been the closest to Samson. Then I want to get a look at the students."

"First time we ever heard of that Angel kid."

Roy frowned. "Samson's mother didn't say a word about him."

"What do you think she meant by tolerant?" Havoc asked.

Roy shrugged. "We'll have to find out," he said. There was a sign to their right with the word **GYM** in bold letters. "I believe this is us," Roy said, holding the door for Havoc. "Shall we?"

"I didn't realize we had a choice," Havoc muttered. Roy, snickering, followed him inside.

*

The lab wasn't opened for him until half an hour after Ed arrived, no doubt the handiwork of that damn receptionist. Ed stood against the wall of the main office, scowling at the researchers as they scrambled to put everything to a standstill and get the hell out of his way.

"How many assistants will you need?"

"Three'll be fine," Ed said. The director of the lab, an older man whose name Ed could never remember, nodded, and called out three names. Three men, all of whom were at least twice Ed's age, stopped what they were doing and came over.

"You'll be with Major Elric until further notice," the director instructed. "He's in the middle of investigating an alchemic murder."

"Sounds exciting," one of the men said.

"Depends on your type of excitement," Ed returned. "Personally, killing little kids doesn't do it for me."

"You'll have to excuse them," the director said dryly. "We aren't let out very often, as I'm sure you can imagine."

"Explains a lot," Ed muttered. "All right, first thing's first. You," he pointed to the oldest of the three assistants, "your name?"

"Ah, Sanders," the man said, "Frank San—"

"Okay, great, go to the butcher's."

"The… butcher's?" Sanders looked confused. "But—"

"And get me some meat. Uh, fuck, what is it—a round! Get about eight of them. Pork, not beef, don't fuckin' bring me back beef." Ed pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket and handed it to the bemused man. "Tell them to take it out of my research budget. S'not like I ever get to _use_ any of it, anyway."

"Pork rounds," Sanders said, took the paper and shook his head. "All right."

"Until he gets back, we'll start on the preliminary test," Ed continued briskly. "Test site four should work fine. Both of you, come with me."

Test site four had been Ed's favorite. It was a wide-open space, much more like a warehouse than a simple laboratory testing area. Ed led the way, the two remaining assistants walking quickly behind him.

After directing them to stay at the observation window, Ed entered the open area and pulled a second paper from his pocket, a little folded up square. He opened it and examined the two arrays: the one from the scene and Kimbley's favored array.

The speaker system crackled to life, the initial ear-splitting shriek breaking into the sound of one of the assistant's voice: "What should we be looking for, exactly, Major?"

"For now, stick to observation and comparison—I'm going to draw and activate two arrays at the same level of energy output," he explained. "I want you to provide an objective viewpoint."

Without the pork rounds, the results might be skewed, Ed knew. But Kimbley's array wouldn't be affected by the lack of a target. The real question was whether the unknown alchemist's array _would_ be.

Feeling only the slightest sting of guilt, Ed sketched Kimbley's array on the ground, exactly three feet in diameter—the same as the array at the crime scene. Five feet to the right of it, he sketched the mystery array with the same proportions, careful to give it the same waver as it had at the scene.

"Ready?" he called. At the window, the two assistants gave him the thumbs-up. "I'm going to activate the array on the left first," he began, kneeling down in front of Kimbley's array. To the best of his knowledge, Kimbley's array was dangerous regardless of size. He'd have to be careful not to take the building—and all of its inhabitants—down with the explosion. Touching his hands to the edge of the array, blue light sparked out for barely a second before the ground blew, cement floor and the under layer of earth shooting up in the air and blowing Ed back onto his ass.

At the window, the assistants did a marvelous job of not caring. When Ed managed to get back to his feet, they were both writing rapidly, not even giving him a second glace.

Rubbing his lower back, Ed called over to them, "Ready for array number two?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm going to activate it with the exact level of energy as the previous," Ed reminded them. "Take special note of the potential for destruction as compared to array one. Ready?"

After confirming that his assistants were prepared, Ed knelt down before the second array. With Kimbley's array, he'd known what to expect. Part of Ed was quivering at the thought of what this array might do. He knew well enough it was some sort of explosives-based array, but explosives based on what? What fed it? With his luck, it would be some sort of twisted suicide array.

Swallowing, Ed braced himself and touched his hands to the lower edge, closing his eyes as he pushed energy into the array, expecting the worst when—

A spark of blue light, followed by red light, green, orange, and on. Ed stared, mouth open, hands still pressed to the array. "There is no fucking way."

"Sir," one of his assistants spoke through the speaker system, "why, exactly, are we observing the potential for destruction on an array for _fireworks_?"

Ed, still blinking rapidly, just shook his head. "Honestly? I have no fucking clue."

*

"Wow," Havoc said as he and Roy walked very, _very_ quickly from the coach's office. "Did we really just spend two hours listening to that guy?"

Roy gave his pocket watch a brief, irritated glance. "We did," he confirmed. "I wasn't aware one person could expound like that for so long. How many times do you think he said _sports are great_?"

"There's really no telling. Chief," Havoc grabbed Roy's shoulder and leaned close to him, eyes wide and full of despair, "please, _please_ , just let me take a smoke break. A small one. I'm begging you, I'm going out of my mind—"

"Breaking the habit wouldn't kill you," Roy grumbled, and Havoc, looking just as stubborn, said, "I bet you it will!"

"Fine," Roy relented. "I wouldn't mind some fresh air, anyway. This building is getting to me."

"Feels a bit like a prison," Havoc agreed. "I never did like school."

"Shall I pretend to be shocked?" Roy gave him a dry look.

"Nice, chief."

They stood just outside the door that let out onto the school green. Roy pointedly ignored Havoc while the lieutenant smoked, instead giving the community bulletin posted on the outer wall beside the doors a look-over.

"Anything interesting?" Havoc asked, taking another drag in with a look of pure bliss. "Damn, that's good."

"Most of this looks outdated," Roy said, tapping the board. "A sporting event last month, the performance troupe from Xing that came through two weeks ago—I doubt anyone much pays attention to this."

"That was an interesting show."

"What was?"

"That show," Havoc said, "the performers from Xing. I took a date to it. Pretty neat stuff."

Roy _hmph_ ed. "If I wanted to see a fancy light show, I'd just snap my fingers. How much did you pay? I'm sure they overcharged—"

"Killjoy," Havoc laughed. "You'd have taken the boss, if he'd asked."

"Only because he wouldn't have left a choice," Roy returned. "That type of show is for children, Lieutenant. There's a reason it was advertised at a grade school." He looked over his shoulder at his subordinate. "Are you nearly done? We're in the middle of an investigation, in case you weren't aware."

"Yeah, yeah." Havoc dropped the butt of his cigarette to the ground, stamping it out with the heel of his boot. "Let's get going."

They were barely in the doors again when a boy whose face looked quite familiar to Roy stopped them. "Hey," the boy called, "are you them? Are you the ones talking to people about Samson?"

"We are," Roy confirmed, scrutinizing the boy. "And you are… Elijah Stern?"

Elijah looked surprised. "How did you know?"

"Samson's mother showed me a picture of the two of you," Roy said. "I'm glad you found us. I was hoping to talk to you."

Elijah didn't look overly excited by the prospect of talking to two military men. In fact, the kid looked downright depressed, his face sagging, his posture loose and dejected. Elijah shrugged. "Why bother?" he asked. "No matter what I say, Samson's still dead."

There was something chilling about hearing those words out of a child's mouth. Roy could relate to the boy's misery though—in fact, he could recall feeling that way, completely spent, like nothing he did would make a difference. Maes had died in much the same manner, after all. Roy knew there was little anyone could say that would make the death of a brother, biological or otherwise, sting any less.

"But you could have a hand in putting his death right," Roy said. "We're looking for the person responsible. Don't you think whoever did it deserves to be punished?"

Something in Elijah's eyes lit up. "Yes," he said quite clearly. "I do. I do think that."

Havoc was silent at his side. Roy heard him flipping pages on the notepad. "What can you tell me about the last day Samson was alive?"

"It was the same as any other day," the boy said, nose scrunched as he stared at the floor.

"Did you know he would be at the park?" Roy tried. "He was meant to be here, wasn't he?"

At that, Elijah started, looking up at Roy with an unreadable expression. "He was supposed to be here," the boy echoed. "That's right, he was. He went to the park though?"

"That's where he was found," Roy confirmed. Something about what he'd said had clicked in the boy's mind, Roy could tell. Elijah's brow furrowed and he shook his head, as though trying to make sense of something.

"But that's not what…" The boy trailed off to a mutter before adding, louder, "I think, maybe, I—"

"Eli!" All three of them turned to see the coach coming down the hall. "Practice, remember?" the man called.

Elijah nodded reluctantly and turned to go, but at the last moment, he looked back at Roy. "I have to go to ball practice," he said quickly, darting a nervous look back at the coach, who was standing at the end of the hall, tapping his foot impatiently. "Tomorrow, will you come back?"

"Tomorrow?" Roy asked. "We could wait—"

Elijah shook his head. "I have a game tonight," he said. "Samson wouldn't—I can't tonight," he finished. "Tomorrow, come here tomorrow?"

And what else could Roy do, but agree? When Elijah went down the hall to meet the coach, he turned to Havoc. "He knows something."

"No doubt about it," Havoc agreed, tucking the notepad away. "I don't think he knew that he knew it, though."

"Something I said triggered his memory." Roy glanced back down the hall, watching Elijah and the coach disappear in the direction of the gym. "I wonder what?"

It was definitely a step in the right direction. The only trouble was that Roy didn't actually feel any closer to the answer than he'd been that morning.

"So what now?" Havoc asked.

"I want to check with the other boy. Angel something?"

Havoc pulled the notepad back out. "Law," he said. "Angel Law, class 8-B."

It took them the better part of an hour to work out where class 8-B was in the school. Apparently, switching classes was the norm. Students could be anywhere at any given time. It was closing in on noon by the time one of the teachers helpfully pointed out that the students would be at lunch, and why didn't they check the green?

"Samson's teacher said it," Havoc reminded as they made their way to the open field behind the building. "About how Samson and this Angel kid ate out here, remember?"

Roy searched through the students spread out across the green, all of them in different groups, eating and laughing. He approached a particularly large group of students, clearing his throat loudly to get their attention. All of them stopped dead, staring at Roy in his uniform like they'd never seen a soldier before. "Sorry to bother you," Roy began graciously, "but would any of you happen to know where Angel Law is?"

One of the students, a girl, scoffed and pointed toward a large tree at the far edge of the green. " _That_ guy? He sits over there."

"Alone?" Roy asked.

"Who'd want to eat with him?" the girl answered.

Ah. Roy nodded his thanks, walking back over to where Havoc was standing, eyebrows raised.

"Guess Angel isn't all that popular?"

"Apparently not," Roy said. "That wasn't quite what I was expecting."

Angel was, indeed, eating alone by the tree. The boy was so small that he was nearly invisible where he was tucked between two large roots, holding a sandwich and staring dismally at the grass around him.

Another look at Havoc, and Roy stepped closer. "Angel Law?" he asked.

The boy started violently, dropping his food. "Uh," Angel coughed, "Yeah."

"I'm General Mustang," Roy introduced himself, "and this is Lieutenant Havoc. I have a few questions about your friend Samson."

Angel stared at them, expression hard and eyes guarded, before saying, "Sam."

"Excuse me?"

"He didn't like being called Samson," Angel said quietly. "He only liked being called Sam."

"Sam, then," Roy said, giving Havoc a look that quite clearly said, _you'd better be writing this all down!_ "What can you tell me about him?"

Angel wouldn't meet Roy's eyes, looking actually rather frightened. "He was nice," he said, the words so slow it sounded like Angel was literally having to drag them from his mind. "He was the only one who was nice to me when I came here."

"Where did you come here from?" Roy asked, kneeling down in front of the boy.

"I've always been here," Angel explained, "but I skipped up."

"Skipped up?" Roy repeated. "What does that mean?"

"I'm eleven," Angel clarified. "The teachers skipped me up to eighth grade."

"You must be very smart," Roy said.

"Only sometimes," Angel replied.

"Tell me more about Samson. Why do you say he was the only one nice to you?"

"You don't know?" Angel look concerned. "I thought everyone knew. Everyone says the government watches us because of it."

That wasn't what Roy was expecting to hear. "Humor me, then," Roy said. "Why should we be watching you?"

"Because of my father," Angel said. "He was from Drachma. My mom didn't know, though," he quickly clarified. "She thought he was normal. She didn't know until after she had me. He left when she found out."

What a mess, Roy thought. "I can assure you that you're not in trouble for having a Drachman father," Roy promised. The boy looked skeptical, like he was expecting Roy to pop out a pair of handcuffs and arrest him at any moment.

"Drachmans are all evil," Angel informed them. "Everyone says."

"Evil has very little to do with race, Angel," Roy assured him. "Every person has the ability to do what would be considered evil. You aren't simply born that way."

Angel didn't look like he really believed him. "If you say so," he said glumly.

"Samson—ah, Sam didn't think so, did he?"

"No," Angel said after a moment of quiet consideration. "He didn't. But he's dead now."

"He is," Roy said softly. "I'm very sorry about your friend."

Angel picked his sandwich up off the ground, voice barely above a whisper. "Me too."

*

The experimentation had ended rather abruptly after Sanders had returned, explaining that it would take a day to have the meat readied for them. "Butchers don't just have eight pork rounds waiting in the back room," the man said, exasperated. "Did you really think they would?"

"In a perfect world, they would have," Ed said darkly.

"Welcome to Amestris," Sanders returned.

Ed had returned home after that, still reeling from the results of the array. How had fireworks done such damage? It was possible that the array required some sort of target to be effective, but Ed had a hard time believing that its default was _fireworks._

"This makes no sense," he groaned, sinking into the comfortable armchair in Roy's living room and staring dolefully at the paper with the arrays on it. "How in the hell do you blow a person up with an array for _fireworks_?"

He'd spent the remainder of the day after leaving the lab trying to puzzle it out, but by five o'clock, Ed didn't feel any closer to an answer than he had when he'd first triggered the array. When Roy finally came home, Ed had worked himself into a state of such great agitation that it took several long minutes to get him to coherently explain.

"Really?" Roy asked, surprised. "Fireworks? _That's_ what the array did?"

Ed, slumped so far down in the chair that his chin was resting on his chest, sighed plaintively. "Yeah."

"That's—very odd," Roy offered. "Are you continuing with any tests?"

"I have something set up for tomorrow," Ed said. "We'll see. What about you?"

"I think I might have something," Roy said. "One of Samson's friends, Elijah, seems to know something, but he refused to tell us at the school. Said he had practice and a game to deal with."

"Kids," Ed snorted. "No sense of priorities."

"You're not nearly old enough to be complaining about thirteen year old boys," Roy pointed out.

"Sure I can," Ed said. "I'm twice their age!"

As he and Ed dragged themselves through making dinner and clearing the kitchen without killing one another over who had to do the dishes (Ed, always Ed), Roy reflected on how nice it would be to come home _not_ feeling exhausted. When his back hit the bed, all his mind wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep, possibly for the next week. Screw the case, his mind said.

His lower half, unfortunately, was of a different mind.

"That's sort of pathetic," Ed observed when Roy rolled over, trying to drag Ed over him. "You act like a feeble old man sometimes, did you know?"

"I'm tired," Roy complained.

"Then sleep?" Ed suggested. He rolled on top of Roy, pushing his hips against the man's thigh. "I can always take care of _this_ myself."

"I don't think I'm all right with that." Roy's hands rested on Ed's back.

"Positive?" Ed asked. "Really, I'm used to my hand by now—"

"You're a cock tease," Roy said darkly.

Ed responded by leaning back and shoving Roy's legs apart before situating himself between them again, grinning wickedly. "Keep talking like that and I won't take care of you."

"I'll just keep my mouth closed," Roy promised, shifting his hips up. "Honest."

"Sounds like a plan."

As comfortable as it was now, Roy could still remember a time when Ed's body _didn't_ fit so perfectly into his own, when he wouldn't have allowed the younger man to have control like this.

What had he been thinking?

Ed's mouth was at his neck, his shoulder, automail hand gripping the bed next to Roy's body carefully so as not to damage anything. "Hand's nothing like this," he mumbled into Roy's skin.

"Very few things can compare to me," Roy assured him, arching his neck for better access and stretching his arm out to the bedside table to open the drawer and rummage blindly for the lube. He left it on the bed next to Ed.

Ed looked over at the tube after a pointed nudge from Roy's open, crooked knees. "Ah," he said, sitting back.

"Sorry," Roy said. "As enamored as I am of the idea of being ravaged, I might fall asleep in the middle."

Ed squirted a generous amount into his hand, snorting. "And to think, you always said I was the unromantic one."

"One of these days," Roy said, voice catching when Ed slid two fingers between his cheeks and worked them inside, "we're going to be able to lie in bed and fuck each other senseless without worrying about time."

"Sounds nice," Ed said, pulling his fingers free and guiding himself, slowly, inside Roy. With his free hand, he slung one of Roy's legs over his shoulders and, without warning, abruptly slid all the way in. Roy's back went taut, his head snapping back against the mattress. "I'm okay though," Ed said, voice a ragged panting, "with this."

It was always so quick when they finally got to see each other, the months apart wearing down on their control. Ed fucked him fast, holding Roy open with his automail hand as he grabbed Roy's cock with the other, jerking him in time with each snap forward snap of his hips. The pace deteriorated rapidly, the tenuous thread of control Ed had slipping into a mad rut. Roy felt like he was being bent in half, felt like he was melting, felt like a thousand different things as his entire world narrowed to one thing, to Ed.

There wasn't a better feeling, no matter how he looked at it. When it was over, and Ed was lying next to him, sweaty skin pressed to Roy's beneath the sheets, Roy couldn't wipe the stupid grin off his face.

It didn't matter how many years went by—every touch still felt brand new.

*

When Roy woke up, the first thing he noted was that it felt too fucking early for his eyes to be open. The second thing was that Ed was still asleep, and third—the phone was ringing. Loudly and insistently, and whoever was on the other end was going to die a painful death.

A quick glance at the clock told him that it was just after four in the morning.

Make that a painful, _fiery_ death.

Swinging his legs over the side of the mattress, Roy grabbed the robe closest to him and stumbled out the door, down the stairs. It was Ed's robe, he noted blearily, because the damn thing barely came down to his knees, and the sleeves were more quarter-length than long sleeves. He very likely looked like an idiot.

The phone was still ringing off the hook when he stepped into the kitchen, flipping the lights on and nearly blinding himself. Grabbing the phone, Roy rubbed his eyes and muttered, "Mustang."

" _I'm sorry to bother you so late, sir._ "

"Lieutenant Hawkeye?"

" _Yes, sir._ " She didn’t sound very happy. Roy gripped the phone tighter, cleared his throat.

"What's happening?"

" _A second victim was found a half hour ago,_ " she said, " _less than a mile from the Bray's house. Another boy._ "

"Another boy." A pattern, Roy thought. "Has he been identified?"

" _Yes, sir_ ," Hawkeye said, and Roy could hear the reluctance in her voice. " _The boy was identified as Elijah Stern_."

Roy's stomach dropped. "That boy—he knew something."

" _Lieutenant Havoc told me,_ " she said. " _Whatever he knew, sir_ —"

"Has very likely killed him," Roy finished grimly.

" _I'm on my way to the scene. Would you like me to pick you up?_ "

"Yes, thank you, Lieutenant." Roy hung up the phone, eyes closed. The boy _had_ known something. Roy had seen it on his face.

It was unfortunate that he hadn't been the _only_ one to see it.


	4. Chapter 4

Lieutenant Hawkeye arrived at the front door not ten minutes after calling, two throw-away cups of coffee in hand as she banged the door with her knee.

"Is Ed awake?" she asked, stepping in and handing the first cup over. "It might benefit him to see the scene undisturbed."

Roy looked up at the ceiling. "He wasn't awake when I—" a quick glance at the lieutenant, an awkward pause. "I'll go check." It very likely _would_ benefit Ed to see it, but Roy still felt the same reluctance to bring him, despite the fact that Ed had seen plenty, that Ed was no longer a boy of twelve.

Up the stairs and in the bedroom, Ed was awake and staring at the door. Roy paused just in the doorway, and there was an odd moment where their eyes met and Ed just sighed, rolling out of the bed and to his feet, saying, "Another one?" before Roy could even open his mouth.

He was naked still, naked and bent over, digging through the pile of clothes that never failed to accumulate whenever Ed was in town. Roy was sure he could have appreciated the moment a great deal more without the lingering thought of _dead kid_ hanging over him. Ed looked over his shoulder at Roy, frowning. Back straightening, he sniffed a shirt, eyed it critically, and finally shrugged and tugged it over his head. "What?"

Roy shook his head. "Nothing. It's just—too early."

Ed cast a sideways glance at the clock and made a disparaging noise. "No kidding. So what's this one?"

"This one…?" Roy's mind had to process the moment, the words, because he was still too damn tired, like his body was somewhere in the future and the rest of him, the intangible parts, were swimming against the current trying to catch up.

"There was another murder?" Ed suggested. "I heard you get up for the phone, and then Hawkeye's voice. That's what happened, yeah?"

"My witness," Roy said. "Elijah Stern."

Ed winced. "Shitty luck," he muttered. "I'm surprised they identified him so quick, if they only just found the body. The first kid took, what, a day? Two?"

"Nearly two," Roy agreed. "But I honestly don't know any more about this one than you do right now."

"Guess we better go find out, then." Ed walked around the bed, still buttoning his pants and squinting against the light pouring in from the hall. "Hawkeye's driving?"

"Mm. And she's waiting," Roy said. "Come on."

"You could've woken me up _before_ , you know," Ed called after him, hurrying out of the room with his boots in hand.

"I wasn't really anticipating this," Roy called back, then, seeing the lieutenant standing in the entryway, "he's up. He's—"

"Right here, damn it." Ed was making his way down the stairs in an awkward one-foot hop, the other foot partially stuck in his boot while he bent his back trying to do the laces up.

"Good morning, Edward," Hawkeye didn't bother trying to hide her amusement. "I trust you slept well?"

"I would've," Ed insisted, "if I'd gotten the chance."

"Maybe next time," she said, turning to open the door, a hand on the knob. "If you're both ready…"

It felt a bit like old times, the three of them in the car together, Ed sitting in the back, arms crossed over his chest and feet kicking the back of Roy's seat, Roy barely awake and staring at himself in the side-view mirrors, and Hawkeye intent on the road before them. It felt, in fact, enough like _old times_ that Roy had a fleeting moment of déjà vu where he suddenly questioned whether they were about to do something illegal.

But then he caught Ed staring back at him in the mirror, older and surer, a glint of a silver chain hanging out of his simple black coat, and Roy's mind jumped some fourteen odd years back into the present, able to breathe easy once more.

Ed leaned forward, resting his hands on the back of Roy's seat. "So what time did it get called in?"

"Around three, I believe," Hawkeye said. "There was some miscommunication between the patrol and headquarters, and the report was originally given to Intelligence rather than us."

"I wish Intelligence had kept it," Roy cut in. "I've never liked all the legwork involved in local investigations."

"If _this_ is too much for you, then you really must be getting old!" Ed grinned. Roy scowled, but whatever retort he was about throw back in Ed's face was interrupted by a muffled snort from the lieutenant, who covered her mouth a moment too late to hide it.

"My age has nothing to do with it," Roy said defensively. "It's just _tedious_."

Hawkeye cleared her throat loudly, giving Ed a warning look in the rearview mirror. "I'm going to park at the road here. We'll have to walk the rest of the way." "

Why's that?" Ed asked.

"The murder was in an alley, one that led between two houses just across the street from the Brays'," she explained, pulling the car to the curb. "We've been asked to be as discreet about this as possible."

"Figures," Ed said disgustedly.

"And by discreet…" Roy began.

"We're to be out of the way by eight," Hawkeye said. "So I'm sure you both can understand the need to hurry."

Discreet was already down the drain by the time they made their way to the scene. It might have been only half past four in the morning, but Roy could clearly see people poking their heads out their windows, trying to get a better look at what all the activity was about. Two military cars were parked right at the mouth of the alleyway, and several officers were standing guard just inside the narrow path, breaking their statuesque poses for only the barest moment to give Ed and Hawkeye curt nods, a salute to Roy.

"They aren't messing around, are they?" Ed whistled low. "Were there this many officers at the first scene?"

"No," Roy said grimly. "But then, the first scene sat overnight."

"They've upped patrols since then," Hawkeye added. "The chief of the military police is expecting the worse."

"And what's the worst?" Ed asked, glancing down the end of the alley to the huddle of officers. Roy followed his gaze.

"A serial killer, I expect," he answered, resting a hand on Ed's shoulder and giving it a brief squeeze before sliding past him. "Just a moment. Let me make sure the misunderstanding earlier has been cleared up."

The officers already on the scene were more than willing to turn it over, giving Roy their apologies and excuses before bowing out. Roy managed to get a few of them to hang around on the off chance something might happen, but for the most part, the alleyway cleared out quickly after their arrival. Raising a hand to wave his subordinates over, Roy went to greet the sight—the boy, the body charred but still recognizable, and an array scribbled hastily on the wall.

"This is different," Ed said, stepping up to his side.

"It doesn't even look like the same murderer." Roy pointed at the array on the ground, much smaller than the first one. "The only thing still the same is the array."

"Even that's not entirely the same." Ed squatted down, resting his hands just over the array. "It's smaller—maybe a foot in diameter? And the lines," he ran his finger along the outside edge of the circle, "are straight. It's like—"

Roy paused, but Ed's mouth snapped shut. "Like?" he prompted.

"Dunno," Ed said vaguely, but Roy could see something building in his mind, the wheel turning rapidly. "This is the kid, then?" Ed asked, abruptly switching gears. "What was his name?"

"Elijah Stern." Hawkeye handed a notepad over to Ed, the one from the meeting with Mrs. Bray.

"Has the family been notified?" Roy asked.

"I'm afraid you're not that lucky, sir."

Roy cursed. "Of course. Locate the family for me, Lieutenant. We'll head straight there once we've finished here."

Hawkeye saluted and stepped away. "I'll send a call in to Havoc, sir. He should be able to get the information."

When Roy turned back to the body, Ed was still crouched down, staring wistfully at the array, glancing at the body every so often with the same unreadable expression. "What?"

As though startled, Ed looked up sharply. "Nothing. I have to finish those tests today, is all."

"You're not telling me something," Roy said, and Ed laughed, a short bark, and said, "Is that right?"

As the sun began bleeding soft light into the early morning darkness, Roy caught sight of doors opening, of old women still in their dressing gowns stepping out to get a closer look.

He could tell already. It was going to another long, tiresome day.

*

Ed left Roy at the scene about two hours after arriving, his pockets jammed full of paper after paper, all scrawled over with notes and sketches and theories. _Something_ was coming together in his head, something just out of reach, but it was _there._

When he got to the second lab, the entire building reeked of meat. Pork, in fact, Ed noted happily. Sanders was lugging bag after bag of pork rounds into the test site they'd used the day before, blood splattered from the bag and all over his once pristine lab coat. Ed came into the room with a grin, slapping Sanders on the back and standing next to him. He had to be radiating joy, because Sanders kept looking from the raw meat to Ed with a look on his face that made it seem that the man wanted nothing more than to run screaming.

"Sanders," Ed said gleefully.

"Major Elric," Sanders said, flat-toned. "Your rounds." He gestured at the meat. "If that's all…?"

Ed waved a hand at the door. "Yeah, for this. I need you to do some observation. Get one of the others, too. Fuck, what were their names?"

"I'll just get right on that," Sanders said, and left the room grumbling. Ed didn't care. Let the man complain, he figured. So long as everyone did their jobs, they could say whatever the fuck they wanted.

The difference in the array from the two scenes was the key. Ed was sure of it. He just had to figure out why.

He sketched the array on the floor twice, giving about five feet of leeway between them. The first one, much larger at three feet in diameter, the lines unsteady at the edges, and then the second version, only a foot in diameter and much surer. He had the lab report from the first boy, Samson, who weighed one-hundred-twenty-six pounds at the time of death. Elijah's corpse was still sitting in the alley when he'd left, but Ed could estimate that he was roughly three inches shorter than Samson, if the information from the first report was correct.

For the first array, he dragged the equivalent of Samson's weight in pork, and did the same for Elijah on the second array.

"Are you guys ready?" Ed called to the observation window. Sanders leaned forward to the speaker system, coughing.

"We're all ready," his voice sparked, a mechanical crackle. Next to Sanders, a younger assistant, someone not part of the first tests, was standing, staring at Ed with something close to awe in his eyes.

Ed turned away, suddenly uncomfortable. "Right," he said. "The, uh, first array is a replication of the first scene. Samson Bray, age thirteen," he glanced down at one of the papers he'd brought along, "one-hundred-twenty-six pounds, 5'6. He was completely obliterated by the effects of the array—"

"Wasn't it just fireworks?" Sanders asked, skeptical. "How did an array for fireworks cause any damage?"

"That," Ed began, "was my question as well. But when I went to see the second scene, there was an obvious difference between the first body—what was left of it—and the second."

"And that was?"

"I'm getting there, damn it, stop rushing me!" Ed scowled at the observation window, narrowing his eyes at an unrepentant Sanders. "The second body was completely intact, just burnt up. I'm willing to bet that once Knox gets a look at it, he'll see the insides got the most of the damage."

"And how's that possible?"

"The first array was large, remember?" Ed gestured to the first circle. "It was large and unstable, and, looking at the second scene, I think the major difference between the two was power. Whoever's behind it did the first transmutation with no restraint."

"And you're sure about this?" Sanders asked. "Maybe the arrays you've found aren't even the ones the murder used!"

"That," Ed said, "is what we're about to find out. I'll start with array one."

The meat was all piled up on top of the array. When Ed knelt down and placed his hands on the outer line, the fluids dripping out of the pork stained the tips of his gloves. "Ready?" he asked once more.

"Go ahead," came the answer.

With one last deep breath, Ed closed his eyes. There was likely a big gap between his own idea of 'unrestrained' and that of the unknown alchemist. If Ed let loose completely, there was no doubt in his mind that he'd take the building out as well, not to mention himself and everyone in the lab. No, he'd simply have to exert the necessary force to overpower the array and completely skew its original purpose, then halve that power for the second array.

When the blue light crackled from his hands and into the lines of the array, Ed was quick to push off his feet and backwards—just in time. Rather than the original display of colored, sparking lights, there was a violent, red flare, and a series of popping sounds, like meat being overcooked in grease. He barely had time to cover his eyes against the glare before the popping turned to an earsplitting crack, the pile of pork _exploded._

And then it was silent. Ed wiped the splatter of hot meat off his arms, quite thankful he'd covered his face. "Well," the speaker system squeaked to life, "I see you were correct."

Grimly, Ed nodded. "Looks that way." It couldn't have been a pleasant way to die. There'd been a space of about ten seconds before the meat actually blew, which could very well have meant that Samson Bray literally cooked alive for ten seconds before the damage caught up to him.

"Array number two," Ed said abruptly, shutting the thought away. He had to focus. There wasn't time to pity a boy who'd been dead for days, not when the murderer was still out in the city. "The difference in power is the main aspect of this murder," he began, "as well as the size. The decrease in diameter adjusted the possible output of energy. If I'm correct," and at that point, Ed didn't see how he couldn't be, "then the second murder proves one thing."

"Which is?" Sanders asked.

Ed knelt down, hands on the circle. "That the alchemist had no idea what he was doing the first time around. Ready?"

A pause, then, "Ready when you are."

When Ed activated the array, the differences were already noticeable. The damage was instantaneous. Rather than exploding, the meat seared and emitted a cloud of smoke —and the light was much dimmer, less obvious.

The pork sitting on the array was still in place once the transmutation ended, the outside of it charred. Ed stared down at it for a moment before clapping his hands, his automail arm shifting into a blade. Reaching down, he sliced the top of the first round open, pushing the meat apart. A blast of steam hit his face, causing him to stumble back and flinch. "Fuck," Ed cursed, rubbing at his eyes with his flesh arm. When the burning ceased, he stepped closer again, cautiously this time, and looked down.

As he'd thought, the meat _had_ been completely roasted on the inside, the red of it so dark that it appeared almost black, as opposed to the overall leathery red of the outside.

"How is it?" Sanders asked over the speaker.

Ed looked over his shoulder and called, "Burnt on the inside, leather on the outside. Mark it, will you?"

That something that had been just out of reach before was rapidly clearing in Ed's mind, a picture forming from the fragments. Roy, he thought, staring down at the piles of meat, would want to hear about this.

*

Elijah Stern's parents lived on the opposite side of town from the Brays', the school sitting almost directly in the middle. Roy figured the kid must not have even gone home after school—or after the game he supposedly took part in.

"All these damn sporting events," Roy grumbled, resting his head back on the seat, eyes closed, as Hawkeye drove them to the Sterns' house. "When I'm Fuhrer—"

"Sir," Hawkeye sighed.

"No, no," Roy said. "This is important! When I'm Fuhrer," he ignored her second exasperated sigh, "I'm going to issue an edict! No sporting events for anyone below the age of twenty-five."

"I'm not sure that would settle well with the people, sir," Hawkeye said. "In fact, I know it won't. Perhaps you should keep your delusions of grandeur to yourself, in this case."

"I have no delusions, Lieutenant," Roy assured her. "Only grand aspirations."

"I find they're usually the same with you," she muttered under her breath.

There were lights on in the Sterns' house when Hawkeye pulled up onto the curb and parked. From his view of the kitchen window, Roy could see a woman flitting back and forth, her hands at her mouth, her hair unkempt.

He wondered if she would know before they said anything, just like Samson's mother. Which was easier? Being the bearer of such tragic news, or being the confirmer of a mother's worst fears?

Nausea bubbled up in his gut as Roy walked up the driveway, Hawkeye matching his brisk pace with an expression just as stiff. It was the necessary mask, the _I'm sorry for your loss_ expression that chipped away at Roy's insides with every word that spilled from his mouth.

Hawkeye was the one to knock, and when a woman answered the door, her eyes riveting on Roy's uniform before she could probably greet them, Hawkeye was the one to speak first. "Mrs. Stern?"

"Yes," Mrs. Stern said faintly, one hand at her neck, worrying the skin. "How can I help you?" Her voice broke in the middle of the sentence, a short catch of her breath.

Roy glanced at his lieutenant. "We're here to speak with you about your son—Elijah Stern?"

"Elijah?" she asked. "What's he done?" Mrs. Stern held the door open for them, stepping aside. "Is this about Samson? That poor boy—his parents must be beside themselves!"

The faint nausea churning in Roy's gut abruptly took hold of his stomach, squeezing and pulling. He swallowed, took a breath, and said, "It does involve the Bray murder," as he stepped past her, Lieutenant Hawkeye a foot behind him.

Mrs. Stern closed the door and joined them in the kitchen, gesturing to the chairs around the large wood table as she took a seat. "What can I do? I feel so badly for them—"

"Mrs. Stern," Roy had to interrupt her, get her to stop talking. The woman—how could she not know? Her son never came the night before, had he? "Where was Elijah last night?"

She glanced at Hawkeye, obviously looking for a break in her blank expression for some indication as to what the visit was about. "He stayed the night out," she said. "He had a game, you see, and it's an awfully long way to walk at night, especially with—you know. He was staying with a teammate after the game."

"Did he say who?" Roy asked.

Mrs. Stern shook her head, frowning. "No. He usually stayed with Samson, but—well, that's obviously not where he was." She sat up straighter, the frown deepening. "What _is_ this about?"

"Mrs. Stern," Hawkeye began, "early this morning, your son was found about two blocks away from the Brays' house."

"Found where?" the woman asked. "Doing what?"

God, she just wasn't _getting_ it. Roy looked at Hawkeye, searching for any indication of frustration. His lieutenant was as impassive as ever, though, and thankfully so. They would need to remain calm for this.

"He was found dead," Hawkeye replied, and the result was instantaneous, as though time had simply stopped. Mrs. Stern's indignant expression froze, her hand still resting just below her neck, and Roy had the vaguest notion that even her blood had frozen in her veins. When life went roaring back into her, Mrs. Stern's face blotched red, her mouth dropping open and snapping shut in rapid succession.

"Dead," she echoed. " _Dead_? He—he can't—there must be some mistake," she insisted. "I just saw him—just yesterday! I sent him off to school and—you can't have found the right boy."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," Roy said, and he couldn't have been any more sincere for the ache he was feeling. "We believe his death is connected to Samson's."

Mrs. Stern was still staring at him with the same look, eyes wide and wild, mouth a tight line. Her eyes kept darting from Roy to Hawkeye to Roy to Hawkeye, so fast that Roy couldn't follow. _This_ was what panic looked like, the incomprehension of having the world ripped out from under you.

When she finally spoke, it was a parody of her earlier voice, just a croaked, "why?" before she buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking.

Roy could offer his condolences, could promise a resolution to Elijah's murder, but her son was still dead. Meeting his lieutenant's eyes, Roy could see his thoughts mirrored in her own.

It never, _never_ got any easier.

*

Roy had almost been afraid to leave Elijah's mother alone, but fortunately, the boy's father arrived not long after they broke the news. He walked with a cane, his left leg twisted oddly, dragging uselessly behind him.

"He's dead," the man said, blank-faced. Mr. Stern didn't even sit down with them, just stood in the kitchen and didn't meet anyone's eyes. Vaguely, Roy wondered how many times he was going to have to do this.

"I'm sorry," Roy said again. "But if there's anything you feel we should know—" "There's not," the man said shortly.

"Sir, if you have any idea of where your son was meant to be staying last night, it would be very helpful," Hawkeye said. "We're working to do all we can to—"

"Does it matter?" Mr. Stern said, a crack marring the blank expression he'd thrown up the moment he'd received the news. "He's not coming back. That's—it's done." He thumped his cane on the ground, neck jerking to the side, an abrupt motion to hide whatever emotion was bleeding across his face and into his eyes.

 _No matter what I say, he's still dead,_ Roy recalled Elijah saying, his father's words neatly mirroring his own. He could remember full well the desperate, quiet pain in Angel's eyes, the boy an outcast, his only friend taken too soon.

"While I can't bring your son back," Roy said, "I can promise some sort of resolution. To you, and to Samson's family."

Elijah's father looked at him, then to his wife, the woman still unable to see straight for her grief. "Good luck," he said, still short. "I hope you kill the bastard."

Roy certainly hoped _someone_ did, and altogether unfamiliar feeling welled up in him—the thought that this time, he wouldn't mind ending a life.

"We'll keep you both updated," he said, rising. Hawkeye stood as well, nodding to Mr. Stern and giving his wife a brief, hesitant pat on her shoulder.

They didn't speak again until they were safely in the car, speeding down the residential road back to the city. "I would very much like it, sir, if we didn't have to do that again," Hawkeye said, quiet.

"I know what you mean." Roy pushed his hair off his face in agitation, the restlessness of being unable to _act_ getting to him. "We need to—find something. Anything, at this point, would be better than nothing."

"A pattern?" Hawkeye suggested. "Perhaps, if you can find the next victim—"

"Before the killer," Roy finished. "It's possible, but then, what do we have to go on? Boys on the same sports team, aged thirteen?"

"Perhaps there's some connection between the two boys? They were close."

Roy sighed and leaned against the window, wishing for all the world he could just go to sleep, close his eyes against the whole business. "We need to find out if Ed found anything."

"The tests," Hawkeye said, remembering. "That's right—shall I drop you near the labs?"

"Thanks."

Considering the way his day started, Roy wasn't surprised that Ed wasn't even in the lab—hadn't been for about an hour, according to an older man who claimed to be the younger alchemist's assistant.

"He ran off," the man said, waving out the door. "Said he had to go run a theory by someone. And he left us here to clean up his mess."

His mess? "The experiments," Roy said. "For the case?"

The man nodded. "You involved in the case, General?"

"Yes. If the test room hasn't been cleared yet, I'd like to see it."

"This way, sir."

"I don't think I've ever seen one of the labs this empty," Roy observed, following the older man.

"Major Elric demanded it," the old man said, a wry twist to his words. "Not to be insubordinate, but that little guy's awfully bossy."

Roy cleared his throat, looking to the side. It wouldn't do to let the man see the smirk stealing over his face. Ed _was_ bossy, incredibly so—not that he'd ever own up to it. "I've been told that before," Roy reassured the man. "I can hardly object to your opinion."

The old man just snorted. He stopped, pushing open a door and holding it for Roy. "This is the test room, General. And—watch your step. There's a reason it's not yet been cleaned."

Roy walked in the room, the door left open behind him. It reeked of burnt meat. Ed had clearly been busy, if the arrays drawn all over the ground were any indication. There were four in total, two that looked faded and covered in splattered meat, and a second set, both of which were loaded up with piles of meat, burnt well.

"Interesting," he murmured, crouching down to get a better look at the fresher of the two. "This is the one he did this morning?"

The man nodded, still lingering in the doorway. "He left straight after."

"Did he say anything?" Roy stood.

"Just that he needed to speak with someone." The old man shrugged. "The major isn't very chatty."

Interesting. "Thank you," Roy said, dipping his head to the man as he stepped back into the main hall.

"You want me to pass on a message, sir?"

"That won't be necessary. I have no doubt I'll run into Fullmetal soon enough."

"G'bye then, sir." Roy spared a moment to flick open his pocket watch and glance at the time before hurrying toward the office. How it was _only_ just before eleven, he had no idea. Roy felt like he'd been awake for damn _forever_ , and he had the sneaking suspicion that come five o'clock, he'd barely be conscious. Did the days always drag on like this, or was the stress just getting to him? Either way, a vacation sounded nice. Possibly a vacation of nothing but sleep, hours and hours of lazing the day away in bed.

Breda looked surprised when Roy walked into the office. "General? What are you doing here?"

"Has Ed stopped by?" The office was empty, just Breda sitting at his desk, working away on some assignment or other. The lieutenant shrugged, glancing around.

"Nope, it's just been me all day. Havoc stopped in for a bit, but he's still straightening out the incident with the investigation."

"Incident?" Roy asked. "The mix up?"

Breda nodded, tossing a paper into one of the many boxes lined up across the end of his desk. "Yeah. Apparently, Intelligence is still bitching."

"I'm shocked," Roy deadpanned. "You'd think Archer was still alive, the way they run things over there." Of course Intelligence would get their panties in a knot over something as ridiculous as a misplaced call. "Well then, unless you need something, I'll be going."

Breda shook his head, dropping yet another paper into one of the boxes and grabbing for a third. "Nah, I'm just filing our expenses. You've probably got more exciting things you could be doing, sir."

"Too right," Roy muttered.

Of course Ed would disappear the moment Roy went looking for him. It took roughly twenty minutes to determine that Ed was nowhere on the base, at least not in any of his old haunts. It was unusual, to say the least. And given the circumstances—

 _Said he needed to run a theory by someone_ … A trickle of cold ran down Roy's spine. When Ed left the scene that morning, it had seemed like something had occurred to him, some important idea. And the man in the lab—he'd insinuated that Ed _had_ figured out something.

Elijah, Roy remembered numbly, had remembered something important, too.

Perhaps it was irrational. Ed could take care of himself better than anyone Roy knew, and yet—there were too many unknown variables.

Frustrated and verging on panic, Roy finally broke down and decided to call home, rushing back to the office, where Breda greeted him with a distracted wave before Roy disappeared into his personal office, kicking the door closed behind him and collapsing into his chair. He couldn't even appreciate the relief of finally being able to rest his feet. He was too on edge, too damn tense. Roy had to force his hand steady as grabbed the phone and dialed the number.

The phone rang—and rang, and rang, and Roy finally closed his eyes and willed away the memory of another phone call, years before, that had come to a dead end in more ways than one.


	5. Chapter 5

Roy didn't realize he was grinding his jaw until the phone rang for the eighth time, and then, much to his surprise, a click—and Ed's voice. " _Hello?_ "

"I shouldn't be surprised that you're not working," Roy sighed, relief rushing through him like a wave. "And yet, I am."

" _Oh fuck you_ ," Ed snapped. Roy could hear a faint shuffling sound—books being moved, perhaps? " _I'm working. I think I_ —" A pause, a loud crashing sound, a stream of curses. " _Fucking hell. Anyway, I found something._ "

"Something related to the case?" Roy perked up.

" _Mm. Can you get here? I'd rather not, y'know, go into this over the phone._ "

"I'm on my way now." Roy was just about to hang up when Ed stopped him.

" _Oh, bring food!_ "

"You have to be kidding me."

" _I'm starving. I haven't eaten since dinner, and that was at, what, six yesterday? Seven? C'mon._ "

Roy made a face. "Fine. I'm on my way."

" _With food?_ "

"With food," Roy sighed. "Good _bye_ , Edward."

Ed didn't spare a moment for goodbyes, just let the line buzz for him, going dead. Roy set the receiver down, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling as he stood, exhaustion trying to drag him back down like it had its own gravitational pull.

"Call down to the motor pool for me," Roy instructed, closing his office door behind him. "If Havoc's available—"

"On it, General," Breda said, grabbing the phone. "Shouldn't take long. Go ahead down."

Fortunately, it didn't take long. By the time Roy got down to the motor pool, Havoc was already in the car. When he caught sight of Roy, he honked the horn, waving out the window. "Chief!"

"Lieutenant," Roy said, climbing into the passenger's seat.

"Got some news for you," Havoc said. "From Hawkeye. She looked into Mr. Bray like you wanted, right?"

"Yes?"

"He was on a business trip at the time," Havoc explained, pulling out onto the main road. "Some finance thing. He has a solid alibi and isn't even in Central right now."

"Still? He hasn't come back?" Roy couldn't even begin to fathom that.

"Yeah, he's still working. Guess his son wasn't too big of a deal to him."

"I wasn't holding my breath about that, anyway," Roy said. "It was just—odd."

"Some parents are like that. So, where to?"

"Home," Roy said, then he remembered the other part of Ed's request. "Ah. Actually, the diner you and Breda always eat at when the mess hall serves meatloaf. _Then_ home."

"It's a good diner," Havoc said defensively. "And that meatloaf—"

"Yes, I've heard your opinion about the damn meatloaf every Thursday for ten years, Lieutenant," Roy interrupted. "I don't need to hear it now."

Havoc _tsk_ ed and changed lanes. "Whatever you say, Chief."

*

Ed was waiting at the kitchen window when Havoc dropped Roy off in front of his house, leaving him standing on the sidewalk with an armful of food. He could see Ed peering out at him, as though to say, _why the fuck are you still standing there? Move, damn it!_

The moment he set foot on the front steps, Ed disappeared from the window and immediately reappeared as the front door swung open. "Took you long enough," he said, grabbing the boxes from Roy and holding them close to his face. "Smells good, though."

"You're welcome, Ed. No, it was no trouble at all," Roy muttered. "It's not like I'm in the middle of an investigation—"

"Quit your yapping," Ed said fondly. "If you think I feel bad for you, you're dead wrong, Mustang."

"Mustang," Roy repeated, shaking his head. Ed disappeared back into the house, and he followed, closing the door. "You had something important to tell me?"

Ed dropped the food on the kitchen table, opening all of the boxes and inspecting them critically before grabbing a sandwich from one of them and jamming almost all of it at once into his mouth. "I," he swallowed, "was so hungry. Fuck, all I've been able to smell all day was pork. Burnt pork!"

"Yes, I saw the test room. It's a mess."

"You saw it? Why'd you go there?"

"I was looking for you!"

"Well, that was stupid," Ed said. "Hey, is this all for me?"

Rubbing at his eyes, Roy said, "Everything but the other sandwich. I do occasionally have to eat, too, Ed." Whatever the garbled response Ed gave him was, Roy couldn't tell. "Once you've finished stuffing your face, can we get to the point?"

Swallowing, Ed wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Right, so before I do, tell me what you know. Any solid leads?"

Roy joined Ed at the table, picking the sandwich apart with his fingers. "Not as such. Whatever Elijah Stern knew would have solved the case for us. I'm almost completely sure of that. But his parents didn't even know he was dead when we got there."

"Oh, shit." Ed covered his mouth about a second too late to stop a spray of crumbs from fanning across the top of the table. Roy held his sandwich close to his face protectively, eyeing the mess with disdain.

"Mm. He'd apparently told them he was staying at a teammate's house following the game."

"Who was the teammate?" Ed asked, reaching over to the counter to grab a hand full of napkins, dragging the wad across the table. Roy was quick to smack his hand out of the way and show Ed the proper way to clean, too used to the younger man to so much as pause at the mess—or the sheepish grin that followed.

"His parents claim they didn't know," Roy explained. "I'm going to head to the school after this. I need to speak with the coach to see if Elijah was even at the game, and god knows I don't want to deal with that man…"

"So what's your impression, then?"

"It might be the start of a serial killer," Roy said. "It fits the pattern. A specific victim, a specific style…"

"But the deaths were completely different," Ed interrupted. "I wouldn't count on it being something as impersonal as a serial killer."

Roy frowned. "No? Why's that?"

"The array was actually intended for fireworks originally, remember? I tried to replicate both scenes. The first time around, the alchemist didn't even understand what he was doing."

"How could he not?"

"Because he overloaded the array," Ed said. "I don't think whoever did it knew how much power to put into the transmutation. That's why the body was so mutilated. It literally exploded from the force!"

"Interesting," Roy murmured. He was down to just the crust of his sandwich, which he handed over to Ed. "So you'd say it was an amateur?"

Ed nodded, biting off a good chunk of the leftover bread and swallowing quickly. "That's my first guess. A quick learner, too, because the second scene was controlled. They were able to guess just how much energy to push into the array without completely destroying the body or causing much of a scene."

"Unfortunately for them. It would have held up the case another two days if we'd have had to identify remains like the first death."

"Yeah, well, I never said they were well-informed." Ed shrugged. "Did either of the kids know any alchemists?"

"Not that I've found out," Roy said slowly. "You're saying that's who I should be looking for?"

"I'd be willing to bet on it, that's what I'm saying." Ed brushed the crumbs off his shirt, his plate empty. "So, you heading out?"

"I've got to. We can't wait. The possibility that these deaths can continue is too high."

Ed sat in silence for a moment, watching Roy thoughtfully. "You know," he said, "maybe I should go with you."

"You?" Roy thought on it. "If you'd like. I would have had to call for someone, anyway."

"Let me just go grab my coat," Ed said, pushing out of his chair and stepping out of the kitchen.

"We can walk," Roy said when Ed came thumping back down the stairs, his loud, uneven footsteps a familiar sound. "I need to wake myself up, anyway."

"Works for me."

"It feels like we've done nothing but work on this case," Roy said wistfully.

"It's why I'm here, remember?" Ed's smiled thinly. "If you wanted a vacation—"

"I wasn't blaming you." Roy tugged the end of Ed's braid playfully. "I just wish it was different."

Ed looked down. "So? Work on that transfer. You know I'd rather be in Central." The _with you_ didn't need to be said, not when they both already knew it. Roy had to get his eyes off Ed, had to shift gears and focus, because if all he thought about was how to wrangle Ed within arm's reach on a permanent basis, then the case was doomed to failure.

Exasperated, Ed tugged his hair out of Roy's grip and, in a strangely hesitant motion, wrapped his arms around Roy's waist, face pressed against his shoulder. "We have work to do," Ed said. He didn't move away.

"I know." Roy just wanted to stand there. If he could just not move, could just keep Ed tucked under his chin, hands resting warm and cold on the small of his back, then Roy felt like he could be happy.

But Ed was moving away. Pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss to Roy's neck, Ed stepped back, face settled with resolve, and laid his hand on the doorknob.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get this over with."

*

From the street, Roy could clearly see the ball field over the top of the wall that served as a gate for the school, a mass of students running laps around it, and the coach standing at the edge, arms crossed and a whistle braced between his lips. Ed kept getting up on his toes, lips a terse line, trying to see just what the hell Roy saw.

"Damn wall's in the way," Ed grumbled, pulling himself up by bracing his hands on the top of the wall. Roy watched, amused—he might have only stood tall enough for his nose and eyes to see over, but Ed was about an inch too short for the top of his head to even be level with the wall.

"We could just walk around it," Roy suggested, pointing to the place where the wall ended, giving access to the school. "We have to actually speak to the coach, after all."

"Smart ass."

The coach spotted them long before they ever made it to the field. On the track looping around it, the students had all mostly slowed to a walk, sweaty and panting. Roy led Ed quickly across the track and over to where the man was standing, obviously waiting for them.

"Coach Devins," Roy greeted, his smile wooden.

"General," the coach said. "And, uh…"

"Major Elric," Roy said. "I was hoping to ask you a few more questions."

"About?" Devins didn't look thrilled at the idea.

"Elijah Stern," Roy said.

"Eli? Why?"

Roy glanced over at Ed. Word hadn't gotten around, it seemed. He wanted to grind his teeth. He was so sick of being the bearer of bad news. The papers were so quick the first time. Couldn't they have tried a bit harder this go around, and saved Roy the trouble?

Ed, apparently having read Roy's mind, cleared his throat. "He's dead, that's why. His body was found this morning."

Devins didn't say anything. In fact, the man didn't even move. Roy, after a cautious look at Ed, code for _please use tact_ , asked, "What time did he leave the game last night?"

"He—" Devins swallowed loudly. "He wasn't at the game." The man's face had bled a pasty white.

"Wasn't at the game? Where was he?"

"I have no idea," Devins said. "He told me he couldn't come—wouldn't come, I guess."

"When was this?" Roy asked. The boy had been so specific that he couldn't speak to Roy because of the game. What could have changed his mind?

"Well," the coach said, his words slow as he looked up in thought. "Right after you spoke to him, actually."

"At the school yesterday?"

"Yeah, right when I came to get him for practice. I figured it had something to do with you and—and Samson."

"I see," Roy said numbly. He didn't actually see _anything_ , couldn't make sense of the situation at all. Elijah had refused to speak with him—on purpose? What sense did that make?

"Did he say anything else?" Ed asked. "Anything about where he was going?"

"No, why would he?" Devins still had that blank look of shock about him, and his voice had taken on a muted tone, faint and flat. "I just—where was he found?"

"I'm sure it'll be in the papers in the morning," Ed said snidely. "You can find out—"

Roy held up a hand. "Near Samson's house."

Devins looked from Ed, to Roy, back to Ed, then at the ground. "Is there a connection?"

"That's what we're looking for," Roy assured him.

Silence for a moment, then, "All of my best players are dying," the man said morosely.

"That— _that's_ what you're worried about?" Ed demanded. "Your best players dying? Not that, oh, I dunno, _kids you know are dying_?"

"Samson was the best player we had," Devins insisted. "He took the game seriously!"

"I could have used you instead of the pork," Ed muttered under his breath. Then, louder, "We're done here." He looked at Roy. "Right? He's useless." Ed looked so on the verge of a tantrum that Roy nearly laughed—would have, had it not been for the situation at hand.

Sometimes, he thought, leading Ed toward the main building, people were just foolish.

*

Word might not have gotten out _before_ they arrived at the school, but either the students were quite a bit more aware than their teachers, or Coach Devins had loose lips, because within ten minutes, every eye was on Roy and Ed. The students knew why they were there.

"You know who you're looking for?" Ed glanced up at Roy.

"Not particularly," Roy answered. "Everything about this case is baffling. Every time I think I know what I'm doing, something—or someone—comes up and proves me wrong."

Ed snorted. "I would've thought you'd be used to that happening by now."

"Very funny, Edward."

"Teachers?" Ed suggested. "Friends?"

"The teachers I spoke to before were useless to the investigation." Roy paused in the hall, staring thoughtfully at the rows of classroom doors running to the very end where the hallway opened into the cafeteria. "The students, I believe, would be our best bet."

"Makes sense to me," Ed said. "Got any names?"

"None living," Roy muttered. "Other than Angel Law, who was close to the Bray boy, I've got very little info on Elijah Stern."

"Then I guess we should start with his year mates." Ed flicked open his watch. "You take the students, then. I'm going to go poke around the gym. Meet in half an hour?"

"If you think that's enough time," Roy agreed. "Why the gym?"

"It's the main connection," Ed said. "Maybe I'll find something."

Roy nodded. "I suppose that makes sense. I'll meet you in front of the school in half an hour, then."

Lunch was just coming to an end when Roy ducked into the cafeteria, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible—and failing miserably at it. The few students who preferred the large cafeteria to eating out on the school green zeroed in on him the moment he walked in.

It was just as well, Roy figured. He'd have to talk to some of them, and that was bound to draw attention whether he liked it or not.

"Excuse," he said, interrupting the table closest to the exit. "I was wondering if any of you were familiar with Elijah Stern?"

The boys sitting at the table traded looks. "So it's true," one of them finally spoke up. "Eli's _dead_?"

Roy cleared his throat. "I'm afraid so. Would any of you know where he went last night?"

"I dunno," the boy said, looking around at his friends. "He was supposed to be at the game, but he never showed up. How'd he die?"

"I'm not able to discuss that right now," Roy said. "Is there anyone who was especially close to Elijah?"

"Samson," the boy said. "Right?" The boys around him all nodded. "They were always together, except when that other kid butted in."

"Other kid?"

"That Law kid," he said. "The one who's from Drachma."

Interesting, Roy thought, how the truth could be so easily misconstrued. "Angel Law, you mean," Roy surmised. "How, exactly, did Angel butt in?"

"Eli hated him," the boy explained. "He was, like, stealing Samson. That's what he said, anyway."

Roy raised a brow at that. "He stole Samson." Were boys so ridiculous when he'd been that age? Roy hoped to god _he_ hadn't been. "So, you'd say things between the three of them were difficult?"

"I guess," the boy said. "I dunno."

After writing down the boy's name and the scant bit of information he'd provided, Roy worked his way through students in the cafeteria and in the hallways as the bell rang to signal the end of classes. All of them seemed to focus on the tension between Elijah and Samson, and how strange it was for Samson to bother with someone like Angel. It seemed too calculated, really, that they should all focus on one boy who had so little to do with Elijah Stern.

Interestingly enough, Roy didn't see Angel among the throng of students pushing through each other down the halls and into various classrooms. Remembering that the boy was in class 8-B, Roy went in the direction of the eighth grade hall, keeping an eye out for the boy among the clusters of students lingering in the emptying halls.

He didn't find Angel in the halls or in the classroom. The teacher, an older woman with a patient face, was quick to tell him that Angel was absent that day—something she considered very unusual.

"He's never actually missed school before," she said. "I can't imagine why, with the trouble most of the students give him, but he's always here."

"He has a lot of trouble, then?"

"Oh, yes," the older woman said. "He's not a—well, let's just say the students around here are well-educated at home about who is and isn't an enemy."

Roy shouldn't have been surprised. Central, particularly the area the school was in, held the highest concentration of military families. It made perfect sense that the kids would hear talk of the Drachmans on a regular basis.

Thanking the woman for her time, Roy looked at the clock and hurried to the front of the school, hoping Ed had found something useful.

Ed was waiting for him in front of the building, leaning against the flagpole. He caught sight of Roy coming out of the front door and pushed away from the pole, jogging over to meet him. "Anything?" he asked.

Roy frowned. "I'm not entirely sure. Angel Law, you remember me mentioning him?" Ed nodded. "He's absent today."

Ed didn't even blink. "So? Kids are absent every day."

"According to his teacher, he's never been absent before. And beyond that, there's a connection between both victims and Angel."

Ed hummed. "So—a connection. That's good."

"Good for the investigation," Roy said, "but possibly bad for Angel."

"What are you thinking?"

"Lieutenant Hawkeye suggested that we find the next victim before the killer does. Every single student I spoke to brought up Angel whenever Elijah was brought up—or Samson, for that matter. The three of them are connected."

"And Angel's missing for the first time," Ed said. "Well, shit."

"Exactly my thought. I got his information from his teacher. We should stop by his home and make sure he's there." Roy handed the paper the office had given him over to Ed. "Assuming everything's fine, we might want to consider setting up a guard."

"You're sure about this?" Ed asked, glancing over the sheet before looking back to Roy. "You're certain he's the next one?"

"It can't be a coincidence that these three are connected the way they are and that both of the other boys are dead—within a day of each other. There's something worth looking at here."

Ed handed the sheet back to Roy. "Your call. I'm good for it. Let's go."

Folding the sheet, Roy tucked it into his coat pocket. "What about you? Find anything useful?"

"I found that locker rooms smell terrible," Ed began, "but no, nothing really important. The coach followed me around the whole time. Guy's an ass."

"Coach Devins is a real work of art," Roy agreed. "I'll be glad to never have to see him again."

Angel Law lived too far from the school to walk. At the nearest payphone, Roy stopped and called for a car. Luckily, Havoc was in the office when he called.

"He'll be here in ten minutes," Roy said, hanging up the phone.

"He damn well better," Ed complained. "I don't wanna just get stuck standing on the side of the road for an hour!"

There was a bench next to the payphone, and Ed had commandeered the whole of it when Roy went to make the call. He only grudgingly moved his legs off the seat of it so Roy could sit down when the man hung up the phone.

"It feels good to sit down," Roy sighed.

"You're such an old man," Ed laughed. "I could've walked the whole way there."

"Feel free," Roy sniffed. "I have drivers to get me places."

"You'd think you were already Fuhrer, the way you carry on," Ed said dryly.

"Perhaps," Roy said, and Ed just rolled his eyes.

Havoc took just as long as he said he would, plus a few minutes which he claimed he'd spent stuck in the backed-up line at the motor pool. Ed had scowled and disregarded the excuse altogether. Roy, used to the lieutenant's casual tardiness, simply climbed into the front seat and instructed him as to where he and Ed were headed.

"So you think this kid is the next one?" Havoc asked, tapping his cigarette out the window. "He was the one we saw, right? By the tree?"

"The young one," Roy agreed.

Havoc took a drag, blew it out like a sigh. "You guys really need to step up the pace."

"I don't see you doin' shit!" Ed bellowed from the back seat. "Why don't you get off your ass and do some footwork!"

"Because I," Havoc said grandly, "am the chauffeur."

"This is true," Roy said gravely.

"I hate you both," Ed grumbled, and sank back into the seat, set to scowl at both men through the rearview mirror for the remainder of the drive.

The closer they got to Angel's home, the more striking the poverty in the area became. The streets went devolved from a typical suburban area, to littered streets with barred windows and filthy walls. What looked like a group of Ishvalan children were gathered at the storefront they parked across from.

"Nice neighborhood," Havoc said. "Why don't I guard the car?"

"Whatever," Ed said. "I don't think a group of kids are gonna steal this, if that's what you're thinking."

"We don't want to alarm the family. Havoc, stay with the car. Three soldiers showing up at their door might be enough to send the boy into cardiac arrest."

Ed followed Roy across the street, looking around warily. "Was he like that? A real nervous kid?"

"He was convinced the military was watching his family," Roy said.

"Because of…?"

"His father was Drachman, remember?"

"So?" Ed said as they climbed the front steps to the dilapidated house the school claimed was Angel's home. "I don't see what that should have to do with anything."

"Not everyone in the world is as blind to race as you are, Ed," Roy said, and rang the doorbell.

A woman answered the door, scanning Roy's uniform with nervous, dark eyes. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, ma'am. I have a few questions to ask you," Roy said. He extended his hand. "General Mustang."

After a brief moment of hesitation, the woman extended her hand. "Abigail Law," she said. "Abby. Ah, come in." She pushed the door open, glancing outside and closing it quickly the moment they were all inside. "What's this about?"

"Where's Angel?" Start with basics, Roy supposed. Abby looked at him, at Ed, and then frowned.

"He's in bed," she said. "He came down with something last night. I think it was something he ate." She pointed at a doorway just down a short hall to their right, the door of it cracked open and streaming a soft light into the hall. "He's sleeping," she added quickly when Ed moved in that direction. "Please, keep quiet?" She said it like a question, in an anxious tone that suggested she was hesitant to demand anything of them.

With a quick look at Roy, Ed stepped lightly down the hall, poking his head in the doorway before walking back.

"He's in there," Ed confirmed.

Abby looked between them again, worry deepening the lines on her face, giving her the appearance of a much older woman. "What's going on?"

"Is there somewhere we could speak?" Roy asked. "I have a few questions regarding the recent murders."

"Murders?" Abby looked frightened. "I—I suppose. In the kitchen."

There wasn't much difference between the entryway and the kitchen, the whole front of the house seemingly blended into one large area. She offered them drinks, which they both were quick to refuse. Directing them to the kitchen table, Abby took a seat, waiting for Roy and Ed to join her.

"Questions," she repeated. "What can—what do you need from me?"

"Your son was close to the first murdered boy," Roy said. "Samson Bray. Are you familiar with the name?"

"Angel used to talk about him all the time," she said, smiling fondly. "They were very close."

Roy looked over at Ed, but the other man's eyes were riveted to somewhere behind Abby's head. "And Elijah Stern?"

Abby's smile abruptly dried into nothing. "Angel only ever mentioned him a few times," she said stiffly. "Never anything good. He tormented him!" She paused. "He's dead?"

"Yes," Roy nodded. "He was found early this morning."

Abby looked down at her hands, clasped on the tabletop. "I'm very sorry about Samson," she said. "Angel was devastated. Still is. But that boy, Elijah," she looked to the side, "I can't say I'm sorry to hear about his death."

Odd that she should admit to being glad over the death of a child. Roy had a hard time reconciling her words with the fact that she was a mother. How could any mother be glad a child was murdered, no matter the circumstances? He opened his mouth to continue on that line of questioning, but Ed interrupted.

"Abby," he said, "I notice you have a lot of books."

The woman blinked, surprised at the sudden shift in topic, and turned her head to follow Ed's gaze, looking back at a bookshelf opposite the kitchen. "Yes," she said. "I do."

"There's an awful lot of alchemy texts," Ed continued mildly. Roy felt a tremor of something run through him, and he snapped his neck around to look at the bookshelf.

Abby turned around, her face an odd shade of pink. "When I was younger," she said, sounding almost embarrassed, "I used to practice a bit of alchemy." She laughed. "I can't say I was ever very good, not like the two of you must be, if you're state alchemists! And anyway, I haven't touched those books in years."

There were quite a few alchemy texts on the shelf, far too many for her to have simply dabbled in the science. Roy, for once, was at a loss as to what he should say. Ed had told him to look for an alchemist, one familiar with both boys.

 _But that boy, Elijah, I can't say I'm sorry to hear about his death._

Ed was smiling at Abby, though, and Roy couldn't tell what he was thinking. "Too bad," Ed said. "But I know alchemy's not for some people."

Abby's smile twitched. "No," she said, "it's not."

"Well, I think that's it, then," Ed said, still smiling that same baffling smile. "You should keep an eye on Angel," he warned. "We think it's possible he might be in danger."

Abby shook her head, jaw set stubbornly. "I'm sure Angel's not in any trouble. I'll watch him, but he's fine!"

"General Mustang'll just need to get some information from you," Ed continued blithely, finally meeting Roy's eyes. "Basics, you know, where you were last night, all that. I'll go get the car," he directed the last part to Roy as he stood.

"Uh," Roy said, showing his alarm for barely a second before taking up the part. "Yes, that's right. I'll need you to write out a statement, and I know I have paper in here somewhere…"

While Roy checked his pockets, pulling out a few scrap pieces of paper and pen, Ed quietly stepping out of the kitchen to get a closer look at the bookcase. It was piled with books on alchemy, texts ranging from basic transmutations and on. Ed glanced over the covers, trying to find anything that might relate to the array used in the murders, when he realized something.

None of the books on alchemy had even the slightest bit of dust on them. The rest of the books, the few novels that were stuffed in the bookshelf as well, were caked with a thick layer of it, clearly unused.

Ed looked back into the kitchen, where Roy was keeping the woman busy with some fictitious tale of the legal requirements of a handwritten statement, and frowned.

 _I haven't touched those books in years_ , she'd said.

Well, Ed thought, taking another look at the clean, well-used books. So much for that story.


	6. Chapter 6

"I need any information we might have on her," Roy said. "Anything at all. If she had a parking citation, I want to know."

" _How far back would you like me to check, General?_ "

"As far back as the information goes. I want to know everything."

There was an exhausted sense of excitement in finding a viable suspect—the only viable suspect. After days of dead ends, the case was _finally_ moving, the earlier feeling of helplessness disappearing.

It was about damn time.

" _I'll have the report sent to your office the moment it's ready_ ," the intelligence officer promised.

"No, no," Roy said. "Call. I'm at home, and I'll be there the rest of the night. No matter the time, call. This is a very time sensitive matter, Sergeant."

Ed didn't look at him when Roy hung up the phone, humming triumphantly. He stayed right where he was, slumped over the kitchen table, one hand clutching the handle of his coffee mug, the other serving as an improvised pillow.

"If she's done anything," Roy said, taking his seat across from Ed, "we'll know."

"I bet nothing turns up," Ed said dully. "I bet she's one of those people who everyone says 'she was so nice and quiet'! You know, like all the serial killers."

"I've never met a nice, quiet serial killer," Roy said pensively. "It would certainly be a nice change."

Ed stared at him for a moment, incredulous, before letting out an abrupt laugh. "I dunno, Roy. Scar was pretty quiet—when he wasn't bellowing about Ishvara and eternal damnation."

"Don't talk about him at my dinner table," Roy said crossly. Then he frowned, leaning his elbows on the table. "Are you all right?"

"Tired," Ed answer, "but yeah, I'm good." He didn't _look_ good. He looked—it was difficult to place. Roy hated those moments when Ed's mind shut tight, completely unreadable. It was an abrupt thing, never with any obvious lead-ins. One moment, Ed would be Ed, would be exactly as he should be, and the next, there would be a strange air about him, as though he'd remembered something sad and couldn't bring himself to admit it aloud.

Roy, more than anything else, hated those moments.

"It'll be over soon," Roy said quickly, his mind instructing him to _distract, distract, keep him with you_. "The case."

"Yeah," Ed said, quiet. "I know. I guess I'll be spending another long day on a train again soon."

And just like that, the excitement warming Roy dropped straight through his stomach, now an uncomfortable burn. "That's right," he said. "You'll be leaving."

Suddenly, Ed's melancholy made much more sense. The case would be over soon, there was no denying it. The question, then, would be what next? Ed would leave—would it be another three months before he saw Ed again? Another six, another _twelve_?

This wasn't what he should be thinking about, Roy told himself fiercely. It was a moment in the future—no sense in worrying for it now.

"Don't worry about it. It's only a matter of time until you're transferred," Roy promised. Ed gave him look, another of those damned unreadable expressions, before breaking into a smile.

"You're an idiot," he informed Roy, lifting his mug. "Here's for getting this damned case done with—no more dead kids."

Roy, despite feeling somewhat flummoxed, lifted his mug. The coffee smell drifting toward him was heavenly. "No more dead kids," he agreed.

*

The heavy mood from the day before followed Roy all the way to the office the next morning, straight through rain-drenched streets. By the time he'd navigated the flood of morning traffic and escaped the chaos of the motor pool, he felt so tightly wound that the only course of action his mind seemed to jump to was _burn everything._

It was fortunate that Hawkeye was the first one in the office—and the one to hand him the report he'd requested.

"Is there a reason this wasn't reported to me when it was requested, oh, _last night_?" Roy asked crabbily, pulling his wet jacket off and laying it on the back of his chair.

"There's coffee on your desk," was his lieutenant's pointed response. "And it wouldn't have mattered, sir."

"Wouldn't have mattered?" Roy took his seat and smelled the coffee and _hell_ , had he needed that. The mood at home had been too dismal—the idea of sitting in the kitchen and waiting for a pot to brew with Ed sulking and emitting waves of depression was too much.

One look at the report, consisting of a single page only half-filled with type, told him that no, it wouldn't have mattered. Abigail Law, thirty years old, never so much as a traffic violation or even a detention during her school days. "Married young," Roy read aloud, "excelled in school, never attended university… Oh, wonderful. She's never even toed the line _once_ in her life."

"She married a man from Drachma," Hawkeye said, sifting through the piles of paperwork that had accumulated from the start of the case.

"Unwittingly, if her son's word is anything to go by," Roy corrected. "And something tells me she'd be very defensive about that."

Hawkeye finished straightening the piles. "Perhaps you should ask her?"

"Hm. I think I'll speak with the victims' families again. See if they knew about Angel."

"If you wait an hour," Hawkeye said, "I'll go with you. There's an interdepartmental meeting in about," a quick glance at her watch, "five minutes. I won't be available until it's over."

Roy, holding his coffee and scowling, replied, "Does it look like I'm going anywhere?"

"Mind your tongue, sir," Hawkeye said sternly. Roy had the grace to look sheepish. "I'll send for a car on my way back." She turned to leave, pausing in the doorway to add, "You can get started on all that paperwork until I get back," before disappearing.

Roy looked at the various piles stacked across his desk, a hesitant hand reaching for a pen, before he stopped. When had the windows been last cleaned…? They were looking _awfully_ dirty. The paperwork would have to wait. Roy just couldn't stand messes.

"Oh," he said, "and I have no cleaning supplies. Hm, pity. I'll have to go all the way to the supply building."

"…Sir," Havoc called from the outer office, "are you talking to yourself?"

"Mind your business, Lieutenant!"

"Yeah, all right," Havoc said. "But I have a call for you, in case you're interested."

Roy paused his mental listing of the best cleaning supplies the base carried. "Who is it?" he asked. "If it's General Hakuro, tell him I've gone to lunch!"

"It's nine in the morning, Colonel," Breda informed him.

"Breakfast, then," Roy corrected himself.

But instead of laughing, Havoc said, "it's Ed," and Roy quickly returned to his desk and snapped up the phone.

"Hello?"

" _What are you doing today?_ "

"I saw you less than an hour ago," Roy said. "I'm going to see the families again, as I told you."

" _I just got a call._ " There was something uneasy in Ed's voice.

"From who?"

" _An officer up North,_ " Ed's voice said, the words dragging. " _I have two days left._ "

"They—what?" Roy gripped the phone so hard he heard the plastic creak. "They can't put a time limit on a case! Especially not one like this—"

" _Something's going on up there. They said they need me ASAP, and you know damn well I can't tell them no._ "

"Don't tell them no. Just— _ask_ , Ed, you have to at least try."

" _I'm asking_ ," Ed said, " _I'm asking you to hurry the hell up with all this. I don't need those shits up North breathin' down my neck again._ " Before Roy could break in with some other excuse, Ed added, quiet and reluctant, " _Please._ "

Roy's stomach flopped. "Two days. Right." Two days meant overtime, unless a miracle happened. They might be close, but that didn't mean they were _done_. Hawkeye had only just gone to the meeting, which meant there was still an hour before she got out, before they could kick the day into motion. Insides burning, Roy took a slow, deep breath, and said, "Would you like to come?"

" _Come? Where?_ "

"The families," Roy clarified. "I have to go speak with them, and if we're so short on time, I can't bring Lieutenant Hawkeye." Passing Havoc a command to investigate the scene of the second murder for any possible witnesses, Roy made his way to the motor pool.

It might be selfish, but he would take time with Ed where he could. Lieutenant Hawkeye would understand.

*

Ed was waiting in front of the house when Roy pulled up. "No driver?" he joked, climbing into the passenger's seat. "What, Havoc finally wised up?"

"I just thought we might enjoy some time together," Roy said, simple and to the point. Ed stared at him, shaking his head and laughing for the first time since they'd gotten home the night before.

"You're seriously warped if you consider _this_ a date."

"I take what I can get."

"And don't I know it," Ed grinned. "Mind if we go by the lab first? It's where I was planning to go—before."

At Ed's sudden mellowing tone, Roy was hasty to say, "Of course. I'm sure that poor researcher will be _thrilled_ to see you again."

"Sanders?" Ed snorted. "Guy's all right. Kind of a tool, though."

"I have no doubt he has something equally flattering to say about you."

Roy waited in the car while Ed ran into the lab, disappearing through the doorway. Two days, he thought, allowing the moroseness he'd felt earlier to breach the surface. They had _two days_ to finish the case and bask in each others’ company, then it was back to hours and hundreds of miles between them, phone calls and suspicious superiors and all the rest of the mess they'd landed themselves in. It didn't seem fair that this is all they should get.

He snapped himself out of it the moment a hint of gold made its way through the doorway, Ed appearing once more with a book of some sort under his arm. He was talking to someone back in the lab, and judging by the overtly amused look on his face, it was likely that researcher.

"He's going to try to poison you if you keep aggravating him," Roy warned as Ed buckled himself back in. "Alchemical researchers aren't known for their stability in this country."

"That comment better be pointed at him and not me," Ed said. "Because I am _completely_ stable. Hey, fuck you," he added, grumbling, when Roy let out a rather undignified snort.

It was getting very tiring, the drive from headquarters, to one of the families, to home, and back again. As Roy steered the car into the Brays' driveway, He shook off the feeling of déjà vu with the thought, _of course I've done this before._

"At least," he said, slamming the door, "we don't have to explain any new deaths."

"That's always a plus," Ed agreed. "I mean, how many times have you even had to do that now?"

"Just the two," Roy said, and knocked on the front door.

Mrs. Bray answered, pulling the door open just enough to peek out. "Oh," she said, surprised, "General Mustang?"

Roy elbowed Ed, and nodded. "I'm sorry to bother you again, ma'am, but I'm afraid we have a few more questions." She stared for a moment before opening the door, gesturing them inside.

"What can I help you with?" She looked tense, the lines in her face much more pronounced than the first time Roy saw her. She led them into the same sitting room after offering them tea, which was quickly rejected.

She looked, for lack of a better word, burnt out, like it was simply too much to feel anything anymore.

"Just a few questions," Roy promised. "But first, have you done much to Samson's room?"

"His bedroom, you mean?" She shook her head, pushing her dark hair behind her ear. "No, I've just—I can't bring myself to," she said faintly.

"I understand. Ed, why don't you go look it over?"

Mrs. Bray looked alarmed when Ed stood. "Look it over? Why?"

"We're still investigating," Ed said, tone suggesting the answer should have been obvious. "Where is it?"

Roy jabbed the back of Ed's leg discreetly with the toe of his boot. It wasn't the time to be rough with the woman. Ed could be so willfully oblivious sometimes.

"It's just—down the hall," Mrs. Bray pointed. "The only door that's closed."

With a last look at Roy, Ed huffed, then directed a _thank you_ at the strained woman.

"I apologize, ma'am. Major Elric can be rough, at times…" Roy's voice filtered down the hall after Ed. Of course the bastard would feel the need to butter Mrs. Bray up. He was such a charmer, and at the dumbest times.

The room was, indeed, the only closed door in the hall. Ed pushed it open with trepidation, only to find that it looked no different than any other child's room would: clothes scattered across the floor, the laundry hamper empty and neglected, books on the bed, a deck of cards scattered over the nightstand, the lampshade covered in a thick accumulation of dust. At first glance, there was nothing strange at all.

Ed stood in the doorway, face scrunched into a thoughtful frown. He'd never spent a whole lot of time as a child thinking of places to hide things. By the time he'd found himself with a need for secrecy, the only adult around had been Pinako, and even then, he and Al had had the run of the house. He'd never _needed_ a place to hide things, not really. So where to begin?

Under the bed brought out nothing. The closet was just a jumble of old books and toys that hadn't seen use in well over a year; and the bed was simply a bed, a mess of sheets and pillows. At the crime scene, Samson had had his book bag. One of the investigators had found it laying a few yards away from the playground area. There hadn't been anything useful there, either.

"…no, doesn't sound familiar…" Out in the sitting room, Ed could still hear Roy and Samson's mother, the woman's voice occasionally pitching higher when she spoke. Wondering just how long he had, exactly, Ed finally dropped to the floor, scrambling through the clothes strewn carelessly about. As he rifled through the pockets of a pair of jeans, he felt something, like cardstock paper. It was a ticket to some performance. Ed had a vague recollection of a performance troupe coming through from Xing, but he knew very little about it himself. The ticket was very worn, obviously handled quite a lot. It was dated roughly two weeks before the murder. There was nothing odd about it - until Ed turned the ticket over.

On the back were various sketches of transmutation circles – and each of them was similar to the one that had, in the end, killed Samson.

"Huh," Ed said blankly, because what the hell was the kid even doing with that? His mind scrambled to make sense of it, filtering through the evidence they'd found so far, but there was just—

Hm.

Ed tucked the ticket into his pocket and stepped back out into the sitting room where Roy was listening the woman babble on about something involving Samson and sports, a tolerant look on his face that Ed knew well. It was the one that said, _I may look like I care, but do not be deceived. I'm pretending I'm asleep right now._ He used to get that look from Roy a lot.

"Mrs. Bray," Ed interrupted, lips twitching to a smile at the relieved look on Roy's face. "What did your son do? Outside of sports," he added quickly.

"What else? Well, he was… just very involved in things," she said.

 _Things_ , Ed assumed, meant that she had no fucking idea what her kid did most of the time. "Did he ever talk about alchemy?"

Roy's head snapped up. Mrs. Bray, however, didn't seem perturbed. "Oh, not that I'm aware of. He thought it was interesting. A bit like magic, I think."

"Magic," Ed echoed dryly. "Then I'm gonna just say he didn't know anything about alchemy."

"I don't see how he would," Mrs. Bray said. "Where would he learn it?"

A very good question, Ed thought. "That's all I needed," he said, looking at Roy. _Can we get the hell out of here?_

Roy had always been good at reading Ed's mind. "I think we're finished here," he said, standing.

Mrs. Bray stood as well, puzzled. "That was all? Well, if you need anything else…"

"We'll be sure to contact you," Roy promised. Mrs. Bray walked them to the door, still in that same daze she'd first greeted them in. As they walked to the car, Roy gave Ed a sidelong glance. "You found something."

"I think," Ed said, nodding. "A ticket."

"A ticket?"

Ed tapped his door impatiently until Roy got the hint and unlocked it. After he climbed in, Ed continued, "Remember that performance troupe that came through a few weeks back? The one from Xing?"

Roy closed the door, stuck the key in the ignition. "Yes," he said. "There was an announcement on a bulletin board outside the school when Havoc and I went. Why?"

Wordlessly, Ed pulled the ticket from his pocket and handed it to Roy, who took one look at the crumpled front, frowned, and turned it over. His eyebrows went nearly to his hairline as he took in the scrawled circles. "What the hell? You found this—"

"In the kid's room," Ed confirmed. "It had to be his, too, 'cause it was in his pants."

"Well, aren't you thorough?" Roy murmured, still focused on the back of the ticket.

"He had to be there with someone," Ed pointed out. "No kid just goes somewhere like that on his own."

"Elijah?" Roy asked, starting the car and pulling back onto the road.

"Maybe. Him, or that Angel kid."

"His mother has all those books." Roy sighed. "Two days—"

"There's no point in saying that," Ed cut him off. "Let's just get this done." His words were terse, the reminder unpleasant. Roy felt a surge of anger bubble up. Why should Ed be the only one to feel something about this? He might be the one leaving, but Roy was the one who had to stay behind, who had to sleep every night in _their_ bed—

Two days wasn't long enough for the case, or for them to fight. Roy let his hands relax on the steering wheel, his mind refocus. This was them, and this was how things were. He wouldn't let the weight of it crush them.

*

It was the legwork that made the investigation so intolerable. Roy was used to being the man behind the desk, controlling the pawns running frantically about gathering evidence. That he suddenly had become one of those pawns didn't escape his notice.

 _Local investigations_ , Roy thought disgustedly, and attempted another knock on the Sterns' door.

"Are they even home?" Ed asked irritably. "We've been standin' out here for damn ten minutes!"

"They probably aren't," Roy said, willing away the frustrating pain building in his temples. Every wasted second only increased the pounding, egging it on until he wanted to lash out from sheer irritation.

"Should we leave?" Ed asked.

"Not just yet, you shouldn't." Behind them, Elijah's father was making his way up the walkway, cane jabbing sharply into the ground with each forward step.

"Mr. Stern," Roy said. "This is Major Elric—"

"I read the papers," Stern said. "What do you want?"

Well. Ed and Roy exchanged a glance, and Ed, for once, decided to step back on this.

"We have a few more questions about your son," Roy explained.

Mr. Stern looked them, then shrugged. He shoved past them to unlock the door. He kicked it open and walked inside, not even pausing as he called back, "Come in, then."

"Nice guy," Ed muttered.

"Given the circumstances…" Roy closed the door behind them before following Mr. Stern into the kitchen. The man was still hobbling along, digging through the cabinets for something or other.

"What is it?" he asked, not bothering to look at either of them.

"Are you familiar with the name Angel Law?" Roy asked.

"Law," the man said, pausing to think. "Dunno. Who was he?"

"A classmate of your son's," Roy said. "He was young. His father was from Drachma."

"Hah!" Mr. Stern stood straight, pushing the knuckles of his free hand into his lower back. "Yeah, I remember Eli mentioning that. Weird kid. Said he didn't belong."

The word themselves were neutral enough. It was Mr. Stern's tone that made the hair on the back of Roy's neck stand on end.

"Did you ever meet Angel Law?" Roy continued.

"Hell, no," the man scoffed. "A Drachman? I'm not dealing with that."

"He was born in this country," Ed said, mouth moving before mind.

"He is what he is," Mr. Stern said.

"Regardless," Roy continued, placing a careful hand on Ed's shoulder, able to feel the sudden and indignant rage radiating off his partner, "what else did you know about the boy?"

"Why?" Stern asked, straightening up. "You think he did it? You think he killed Eli?"

 _That_ was a can of worms Roy wasn't about to open, not for anything. "No, sir," he answered. "We're simply investigating."

"You let me know if that Drachman kid did it," Stern said, simple as anything. He certainly didn't mince words.

Roy took a calming breath. "I'm sure you'll find out as soon as we do."

*

"What a fucking waste!" Ed had started ranting the moment they got in the car, waving his hands and looking furious at the world at large. "That fucking—what's _wrong_ with people!?"

"A lot of things, I imagine." Roy tapped on the wheel, stopping at an empty intersection. "We'll head back to the base."

Ed frowned. "We still have things to do."

"I want to check in with Havoc and Hawkeye. I sent them to investigate the second scene." Roy sighed. "Maybe we'll get lucky."

"With this case?" Ed scoffed. "Yeah, right. I've never had so many dead ends in a single investigation."

"Cases like this," Roy said, nodding fervently, "are why I hate locals. I _despise_ them."

"No kidding," Ed grumbled.

"The only thing we have is a single suspect, and even _that_ doesn’t mean anything without any definitive proof."

"We can at least confirm that all the boys knew each other," Ed said. "And the ticket…"

"The ticket is odd," Roy agreed. "But unless we can place Angel's mother at one of the scenes…"

"We can’t do shit." Ed rolled his eyes. "I love the law."

"But really," Roy argued, "all we have is a few touched books. That's—flimsy. That's _nothing._ "

"Yeah?" Ed said. "Well, that _nothing_ is all we have."

"Please—don't remind me."

*

Ed certainly hadn't expected anything out of Havoc and Hawkeye, so he was rather pleasantly surprised when Havoc came bounding into the office, looking terribly pleased with himself, Hawkeye in tow.

"Boss!" Havoc said, grinning. "I think I can make your day a lot better."

Roy looked up from his desk, eyes wide with hope. Ed very much agreed. "Yeah? How's that?"

"Your suspect," Hawkeye cut in smoothly, "was seen in the area of the murder, roughly in the time frame it occurred."

"You can actually put her there?" Roy gaped at them. "How? Where's the witness?"

"A man living in the house next door to the Bray's," she said, "directly across from the alley. He claims to have seen a woman fitting her description roughly between the hours of six and seven."

"Which is when the murder took place," Roy said. "That's—excellent news, actually." He leaned back in his chair.

"What about the first murder?" Ed asked. "Anything there?"

"We don't need it," Havoc said. "It's the same MO, same everything. If we nail her for one, she's as good as convicted for the other!"

Something about that was unsettling to Ed. "So what now?" he asked. "You're just going to arrest her?"

"It's probable cause," Hawkeye said. "We have every reason to bring her into custody."

"But why did she do it?" Ed argued. "There are too many gaps!"

"Which is why," Roy began, already on his feet again and ready to go, "we're going to bring her in. With the proper persuasion, I'm sure Mrs. Law will be more than willing to fill the holes in the story."

Ed couldn't reason it out, and that, most likely, was his biggest concern. Sitting in the back of the car, two other military vehicles behind them, Ed was willing to admit it was possible—likely, even. He'd come up with Abigail Law as a suspect in the first place. Had she simply gotten sick of her son being tormented? If that was the case, why kill Samson, the one friend her son had? Was there something deeper than just a mother's love gone wrong?

They parked down the road. Roy gave the orders to be discreet, for the back-up officers to remain around the perimeter. For an alchemist, the military could spare plenty of back-up.

"I'm going to go look around," Ed muttered, stepping away from the group. Roy waved his acknowledgement before returning to his men, barking out commands and looking generally pleased.

What was missing?

Ed toyed with the chain of his watch, walking the sidewalk opposite the Laws' home, glancing at the poor area around him. He needed answers, damnit, and he wasn't getting them here—

"Young man? Officer!"

Ed stopped dead, looking around in a daze. An old woman was walking quickly across the street toward him, waving her hand high in the air, lilac handbag dangling precariously at her wrist. She had on entirely too much makeup, and for a few brief moments, Ed couldn't look past the heavily painted-on rouge on her cheeks to respond.

Mind clicking back into reality, Ed blinked, worked his mouth, and finally said, "Yes?"

"You're in the military?" she asked.

"Major Elric," Ed said.

"Oh, I thought so," she squealed, sounding entirely too pleased. "I saw your watch glinting from my front porch and thought, why, that young man must be one of the nice officers I've seen around so often lately!"

The old woman looked entirely too pleased to be speaking to, as she put it, _an esteemed member of our glorious military!_

Ed tried to put on a pleasant face, tried to think of how Roy would respond, but all he could get was, "Er, I, uh. Thanks?"

"So what's happening?" she asked in a stage whisper. "All these military men have been poking about for days!"

"The murders," Ed said. "You have heard about those, haven't you?"

The old woman waved a hand dismissively. "Who hasn't?"

"We're just investigating," he explained. "It's nothing worth mentioning." She was staring at him like he was a celebrity. Ed normally ate that shit up, but she was just sort of creepy, eyes filled with wonder and adulation. For a moment, he was so afraid the little old woman was about to hug him that he physically flinched when she stepped closer.

"Can I help?" she asked. "I know everything about this area! I've lived here for, hm, forty-seven years," she said cheerfully.

Ed—managed a smile, but only barely. "I don't suppose you could tell me about the Laws?"

"Abby? Oh, she's lovely. Very odd sometimes, but lovely."

"Odd?" Ed asked.

"She keeps strange hours," the woman said. "I'm not the sleeper I used to be, you see. My arthritis kicks in and I'm awake for good!"

 _Oh hell_ , Ed thought.

"So," the old woman continued, oblivious to Ed's agony, "I'm up all night, some nights! I was even the first on the street to see the papers that morning!"

Ed was having trouble following her train of thought. "What morning?"

"Why, the morning the Bray boy's body was found," she said. "He was an awfully nice boy. Around the Laws' a lot, as well."

"Is that so?" Ed murmured, mind turning.

"Oh yes. But as I was saying, I was up _all_ that night before, because my knees were all swollen!"

Ed made a vaguely horrified face and choked out an, _oh, really?_

"Awful pain," the old woman said. "So I was up, just sitting in my living room all the night, and I must have seen her go in and out a dozen times!"

Ed's mind stopped. "The night the Bray boy was meant to be murdered? You saw her?"

She gave him a strange look. "Yes, dear boy, didn't you hear me? I remember thinking that night, how often do plants need to be watered? And in the morning—oh, poor Abby. She was so fond of Samson. I doubt she slept much the next night, either."

"I see," Ed said.

So Abby was at home? If she was home the night Samson was murdered—they could only pin the one murder on her. But that didn't make _any sense._ It was the same array, the same pattern, and she'd been seen leaving the second murder.

What was he missing?

"Dear?" The old woman was speaking again, somehow much closer. "Are you quite well? I think I lost you for a moment."

"Ah, thanks for all that," Ed said, rushed. "I have to go finish the—er, investigating. Things."

She waved cheerfully at him as Ed took off down the road.

Roy was already walking up the Laws' front steps by the time Ed made it to the house. He should say something, he really should, but something was stopping him. There would be no more discoveries, he knew. Not without some cooperation. Feeling oddly heavy, Ed joined Roy at the front door, listening to the thud of a fist on wood with something akin to guilt.

When Angel's mother answered the door, she didn't look surprised to them.

"Abby," Roy said, looking about as pleasant as he could, given the situation. "We need to speak." There were three military police officers standing down by the road, arms crossed and staring up at them.

Abby looked to the police, to Ed, to Roy, and nodded, stepping back. "Come in."

"You don't look surprised to us," Roy said as she closed to the door. "Why might that be?"

Abby gave them a dry look. "What can I do for you?"

"Where were you, the night Elijah Stern was murdered?" Roy asked, point blank. "You claimed you were here, but a witness saw you leaving the house after dark, closer to nine. They didn't recall you returning."

Abby said nothing.

"Your books," Ed said, clearing his throat. "When was the last time they were used?"

She looked at the ground.

"You don't seem to have much to say to us." Roy watched her, taking in the slight tremor in her hands. "Any reason?"

"There's no need for this," Abby said, quiet. She swallowed. "Just come out and say what you're going to say."

"If that's what you like. You're under arrest for the murders of Samson Bray and Elijah Stern."

Ed watched Roy motion in the officers outside, watched them cuff the woman and lead her away.

Her son stood at the end of the hallway, head peeking out and eyes wide.

And suddenly, the pieces began to fall together.

*

"It was too simple," Ed said for fifth time, watching Abby through the observation window. "Come on, you know it!"

"Simple isn't always bad," Roy said. "I quite like simple."

"This isn't done yet," Ed insisted. "I just—I think we should look closer."

Roy finally looked away from the window, staring at Ed incredulously. "How can you want to keep going?"

"How can you not?" Ed demanded. "If it's not right, then it's not right. Just wanting to wash your hands of this isn't enough."

A long, plaintive sigh, "You have the rest of the day, Edward."

"Thank you," Ed said, the tension in his shoulders dropping. "I'll—I just have to check something out. It's there, I _know_ it is."

Roy turned back to the window, a clear and uncharacteristic dismissal. "I'll just have to trust you, then."

There was so little time. Ed hurried from the room without a backward glance, his stomach tight with worry. He'd apologize to Roy later. They'd have time, soon, but now, he had one last thing to take care of.

*

It took the better part of two hours to figure out just where the government had shuffled Angel off to, and even then, it took another hour just to convince the social worker in charge of his case that it was necessary to speak with the boy.

The room was small, an empty square—far too similar to an interrogation room for Ed's liking. Nevertheless, he took a seat at the single table in the center and waited, careful to keep his expression neutral when the door opened and Angel stumbled in, wary.

"Hey, kid," Ed greeted as Angel took the other chair. He stared back, eyes wide, before choosing instead to focus on his hands. "How are you?"

"Terrible," Angel muttered, speaking to the floor.

"I bet," Ed tutted. "It's been a shit few weeks for you, huh?"

Angel looked up sharply at the language, then back down, giving Ed only the tiniest look at his eyes, dejected and flat. "Yeah," he said. "I guess."

"Your mom," Ed began, aware of Angel inhaling sharply, "isn't havin' a much better time." _Kid's looking at the floor so hard it might catch fire_ , Ed noted.

"Can I see her?" Angel asked, voice dropping to a whisper.

Ed shook his head. "Sorry, kid. She's in custody. She'll be tried, which'll go fast, and then she'll get sent to jail—" A pause. "If she isn't executed." Had Roy been there, he would have gone upside Ed's head, but Angel needed to hear the truth.

"Executed?" the boy asked faintly.

"Yep," Ed confirmed. "It's pretty typical with alchemical crimes." He should know. "Especially violent ones."

"So she's going to die," Angel said, quiet.

There was no point in lying to the kid, not about this. "Yeah," Ed agreed. "Probably so." He waited, watching indecision war on Angel's face. Ed wasn't stupid. He knew what had happened - or rather, he knew enough to make a pretty close guess. It was all in Angel's hands.

"I wish she didn't have to," the boy said at last, and Ed's stomach plummeted.

"That's it?" Ed asked. "That's all you wanna say?"

Angel looked up finally, meeting Ed's eyes, and said, "Mom always knows what she's doing," like that was just that. Something in the back of Ed's mind just broke.

"Then what's she doing?" he asked. "Why'd she do it? It doesn't even make sense! She killed two kids—one of them, your best friend. Is that just fine with you?"

Angel was still looking at him, gaze dead on. He nodded. "Mom knows what she's doing," he said again, and that was all Ed could get out of him.

As he left, Ed felt an idea forming, the single piece of the whole that he'd been missing clicking into place.

*

The interrogations office was a mess when Ed got there. Apparently, Roy and his men had had even less success than Ed had with Angel. Abby Law refused to speak, no matter what she was threatened with. Half the time, according to one of the officers, she didn't even open her eyes.

"She just doesn't care," Roy said, still standing at the observation window.

"She does," Ed said. "She cares more than any of us know."

Roy looked over, one eyebrow raised. "You know something?"

"Maybe," Ed said. "I wanna talk to her, though." He looked at Roy. "Off the record, okay?"

"Off the—Ed, we're trying to convict her!"

"Trust me," Ed said. "You will. Just—do this for me, all right?" If he was right—well, if he was right, there was no telling what he'd have to do.

Roy got everyone out of the observation room, turning off the speaker system as Ed opened the door and took the seat the interrogator had been stationed in before his arrival. Abby didn't so much as look at him, her arms cross tight over her chest and her eyes shut even tighter.

"Abby," Ed said. "I just spoke to Angel." He waited. She didn't respond. "I think you're not telling me everything," he continued. "I think there's another part to this completely missing."

She still said nothing. Ed, at the very end of his patience, leaned forward on the table and said, in a tone barely above a whisper, "You didn't kill the first boy."

 _That_ got her attention. Abby's eyes snapped open. "I did," she said. "I signed that stupid notice—you have my confession!"

"I do," Ed said. "But you and I both know that's not what really happened."

"You don't know anything," she said, looking away.

"The night Samson was killed," Ed smacked the surface of the table, metal on metal clanging loudly and jarring the woman into meeting his gaze, "you weren't home."

"I know that," she bit out. "You think I don't know where I—"

"You really underestimate the neighborhood watch," Ed said, dry. Abby went quiet. "That little old lady next door to you," he said. "You know her, right? Real nosy. She couldn't wait to talk to me when I made the rounds, y'know."

Abby leaned back in the chair, the cuffs on her hands slapping a screech against the table.

"She kept goin' on about stupid shit, though, like how she never slept anymore. I guess it's just the way old people get."

"Is there a point?" she asked finally. "Or are you just wasting time?"

"She was awake," Ed said at last. "The night Samson was murdered. She was awake, and she saw you outside." Abby froze, the sneer slipping off her lips. "In fact, she mentioned it twice. You watered the plants on your back porch once at sundown, and once at about ten at night. You must have some damn weird plants if you're watering them at night, I just have to say it."

The rebellious will fled her then, and Abby looked wildly toward the window, seeing Roy standing with a look of bemusement, staring back at her.

"Oh, he can't hear you," Ed said. "This is all off the record."

Finally, finally, she was looking at Ed, as though seeing him for the first time. "You know," she said, the words breathy.

Ed nodded. "I do."

"Angel told you."

"No," Ed shook his head. "I wish he had. But whatever you did, whatever you said to that kid, he's clammed up real tight."

Abby leaned forward, bracing her restrained hands on the table. "Please," she said. "You have to understand." She spoke in a hushed, hurried tone. "It was an accident!"

"Tell me, then," Ed said. "I can guess well enough, but if you don't _tell_ me—"

"He was just trying to impress his friend!" Abby cried. "Angel is so—he doesn't see things like everyone else. He's so smart, just like his father was." She trailed off, looking to the side. "And Sam was the only kid who ever saw that. It was that—that stupid performance. The school was selling tickets, and I'd bought a pair for the boys. They were so impressed with it."

"But how did that lead to the first murder?"

"Don't call it a murder," Abby snapped. "It was a mistake! I should have paid closer attention. It _is_ my fault, Major, even if it wasn't by my hand. Angel's been going through my old alchemy books since he could read. There wasn't any other way for him to learn, and he had such talent!" The pride in her voice was so sincere, a familiar echo.

"A real genius," Ed muttered.

"You just don't understand. If someone had been there to—to show him how it was meant to be done, this would have never happened. I should have tried. I wasn't—talented," she practically spat the word, "not like you. But I could have shown him the difference between the array he needed and the one he chose in the end."

"It was a variation from one of those books, wasn't it?"

Abby nodded. "Most of the texts I had were geared toward alchemy as it was taught to soldiers back in the old days."

"So Angel had the talent," Ed surmised, "but not the experience." As he'd guessed earlier, it _had_ been the work of an amateur.

"It just went wrong," Abby said, her whole body sagging. "And—he had to watch Sam die, you know. He came home straight after, a complete mess. He told me everything."

"And what did you do?"

"I had him draw me the array," she said. "And then I had him destroy the clothes he was wearing and go to bed."

"Just like that?" Ed asked.

"Just like that," she repeated. "He's my son. What else was there to do?"

"You had to know someone would find out," Ed argued. "If you'd told—it was an accident. No one could have convicted him—"

"If Elijah Stern had killed Sam, _that_ would have been an accident. With my son, it would have become a national incident."

"Because of his father?" Ed asked, incredulous. "You don't really believe—"

"That's all you people ever see," she accused. "Even of me—the first thing the bastard interrogating me asked was how my Drachman husband was doing."

And what could he say to that? "Then what about Elijah Stern?" Ed asked. "What did he have to do with this?"

"He knew," Abby said. "Somehow, he knew. The night after, he came to the house—I heard him talking to Angel, real quiet. He said he wasn't going to let Angel get away with it."

"And then?"

"And then he left," Abby said. "What the hell do you think?"

"You killed him." It wasn't a question.

"He would have told."

"You couldn't think of a single thing to do," Ed demanded, "other than kill the kid?"

"He would have told," Abby repeated. "And then Angel would have been the one sitting here. He's my son, Major," like that explained everything. And maybe it did. Ed tried to think back to his own mother, of what she would have done for him. Take the blame for a murder for him? Kill for him? Kill another _child_ for him? It was—overwhelming to consider. The violence in Abby's words was difficult—impossible, really—to imagine in his own mother, but even so—

Perhaps it was selfish, childish to think, but Ed liked to think that his mother would have gladly sat in Abby Law's place for him, regardless of whether he would have let her.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, voice breaking. "You aren't going to—to tell. Are you? He's just a boy—"

"According to the law," Ed droned, "any person capable of using alchemy with malicious intent—"

"It wasn't malicious!" she shrieked. "It was an accident!"

"—is old enough and capable enough of being tried for their crime. As it stands…" He thought of the tiny boy in that chair in the social worker's office, of the dead look in his eyes.

Was this where he could have ended up, had Roy not intervened when he did? Was this what he could have become, had he not had Izumi to guide him? Ed had made enough mistakes in his life as it was.

"As it stands," he continued, "the law and I have had a few disagreements over the years."

Abby stared. "Please," she said. "You mean it? You won't—"

"You killed that kid in cold blood," Ed interrupted. "You're fucked. You know that."

Looking down, Abby nodded, said in a small voice, "Yes."

"And the way things've been spun, if Angel gets brought in, he won't look much better. You know that if you take both of these deaths on your shoulders, you're dead. They're going to execute you."

Again, a nod. "Yes," she said, voice wavering. "I know. I _know_. But. He's my son." It was all the explanation she needed. Abby's voice steeled, and she looked up, meeting Ed's eyes. "I would do anything for him. He'd never—he'll never do this again," she promised. "He never meant to."

"But he'll have to live with it," Ed said. "Samson, Elijah—and you. He'll take your death, too."

Guilt was a terrible thing. Ed had lived all his life with no small amount of it hanging around his neck, a noose waiting to be tightened. He shouldn't be the one to make this decision. The boy's life was in his hands, and no matter what decision he made, the kid would suffer.

"At least," Abby said, "he'll be alive and safe. That's all I want. From there, he can handle the rest." She had so much faith in her son. Ed didn't understand it, not really.

But somehow, he knew, the choice had already been made.

*

Every major paper in Central—and likely beyond—was printing the story, the mother who used alchemy to kill her son's classmates. Ed had been rather impressed with the spin they'd put on Angel, how he'd been tormented his entire life. Some of the articles had a rather sympathetic edge to them.

Ed just wanted to know where that sympathy had been hiding all this time.

"This was a very unsatisfying ending," Roy said, eyes still riveted to the front page of _The Upper Central Herald._

"Not everything turns out well," Ed grumbled.

"You're a jaded cynic," Roy said. "I would think that should my place."

"Not you," Ed said, and snapped the paper straight. "She'll be executed tomorrow morning…"

Roy cocked his head to the side, chin resting on the palm of his hand. "Do you regret it?"

"Letting her—do this?" Ed folded the paper in half and put it on the table. "Ask me in a month," he said. "It's—hard to process." Should he feel guilty for handing Abby a death sentence in exchange for her son's freedom? Maybe, maybe not.

"Still," Roy said, "they moved a lot quicker than I'd expected. Normally there's a two week period before an execution."

"Alchemical crimes," Ed said, and that settled that.

They'd spent their last day chasing down an end to a case—an end that mattered very little in the scheme of things. As ever, the thing that brought them together kept them apart the most. Ed wanted to apologize, wanted to reach across the table and take Roy's hand and tell him that he was happy, that even though they'd simply fallen into bed, he was _fine_. Waking up with Roy's hair in his face, Roy's body warm against his own, was worth a million orgasms, in Ed's mind.

"When does your train leave?" Roy asked finally, and Ed gave in, stretched his hand out and laced his fingers through Roy's.

"Ten," Ed said. "I tried to ask for an off-hour, or something late, but—you know how it is."

Roy hummed. "They said they needed you."

"They always say that! They probably just need someone to clear the snow, lazy bastards," Ed groused. "Before they had an alchemist, they did it just fine on their own."

"I hope they haven't forgotten the old way just yet," Roy said, and Ed's heart squeezed, a pleasant warmth.

"Bastards better not have," he joked. "When my ass is gone, I don't want them callin' down here for favors."

They'd woken late. Loathe as Roy was to admit it, the morning was rushed, not nearly the time available to enjoy themselves. The minutes slipped by through their clasped fingers, and suddenly it was half-past nine, Ed's suitcase sitting at the door and the man himself slinging his travelling coat over his shoulders.

Roy stood by the door, mouth a hard line, and reminded himself, _this is not forever_.

It only felt like it was.

*

The train station was empty, apart from themselves. Roy felt free to take Ed's hand as the two of them walked slowly down the platform to the single steaming train waiting at the end.

"Sorry," Ed said when Roy's fingers tightened around his own. "I would've stayed longer."

"I know. It's hardly your fault." Roy's smile was lopsided, lips uncooperative. Why was it, he wanted to know, that in moments like these, one was expected to be _happy_? When he stopped, facing Ed, the train looming next to them as an unpleasant reminder, Ed reached up, a hand on Roy's face, and said, "S'not forever though, yeah?"

It wasn't. "No."

"You'll work on that transfer?"

Roy put his hand over Ed's trying to suck in every bit of warmth from that hand, leaning into Ed's palm. "Yes. I will. I'll aggravate Hakuro until he agrees to support it."

"I know how you like aggravating that old bastard," Ed laughed, and the smile on his face felt _real_. "Just—don't—I dunno, don't get weird while I'm gone."

"Weird?" Roy's brows went straight up. "What's weird? When am I ever _weird_?"

The train whistled, causing them both to start, Ed looking behind the column of steam above Roy's shoulder with a dismal expression. He let his hand slip down, fingers clutching tight to Roy's, and said, "You know what I mean. You're a freak, you're _always_ weird!"

Roy hummed. "I have no idea what you mean," and Ed just rolled his eyes.

"Be safe," Ed said. "Listen to Hawkeye. She knows what's good for you."

"What is this, you think you're my mother now?" Roy asked, incredulous.

Ed laughed. "Nah, and good thing, too." When the train whistled again, long and insistent, Ed's face shadowed, the smile sagging at the edges. "That's me," he said.

Roy took a step, closing the space between them. "Yeah."

"I'll call when I get there," Ed promised, looking up.

When they kissed, it was brief: not at all the sort of send-off one expected of soldiers and their loved ones. Roy brushed a hand through Ed's hair, tossing the ponytail off his shoulder, and pressed one final, firm kiss to Ed's forehead. ‘ _I love you_ 's were just another set of words, not always necessary. Their hands spoke love so much better, the sincerity real.

In the end, when Ed disappeared on the train, pausing only briefly on the steps to wave back at Roy, it still hurt to watch him go, still made Roy's heart squeeze, knowing he would go to bed alone that night and for many for to follow. But as he watched the train disappear down the tracks, fading into the distance until only a faint towering of steam was left to signify that it had been there at all, Roy comforted himself with the thought that it _wasn't_ the end, not really.

They had all the time in the world.


End file.
